Broken
by Mayson1604
Summary: After agreeing to participate in a dangerous special assignment, Hunter and McCall face unexpected consequences.
1. Chapter 1

**BROKEN**

**PROLOGUE, 1996**

Usually, it was silence that was dreaded, but throughout the past six years it had become the noise he'd learned to hate. Because trapped within the sounds that combined to comprise it, he always found a piece of her. When he least expected it, he would hear her laughter, or an intimation of her voice, or something as simple as a soft exhale that was evocative of her. He would hear something that would remind him again of what he'd lost, and with it would come the familiar confusion that would submerge him in wondering why it was no longer his.

The early summer evening was no different. The crowd in the coffee shop had thinned, the patrons who filed in steadily at the five o'clock hour dispersing gradually before the small hand on the clock made a shift downward toward the number six. Only a handful of tables remained occupied, most with newspapers spread open across them, and only one with a one-sided conversation flowing non-stop across the granite top from one self-engrossed occupant to the preoccupied one across from her.

The dialogue had long ago faded into rambling for the drawn-face man who faked attentiveness. He nodded when he hoped it was appropriate to do so and cast absent smiles when laughter made its way across the table toward him. But if anyone took the time to look into his eyes, they would see the distance that filled them and separated him from the present.

His gaze shifted sporadically across the room, always returning to the corner table and the brunette who filled one of the four chairs. Her hair fell in a straight, layered pattern to just beneath her shoulders, the ends wispy. She hadn't turned in his direction or given him a full view of her face, but his imagination had already concluded that if she did, dark, expressive eyes would greet him. They were the eyes that haunted his dreams—when he was lucky enough to get a decent night's sleep—and the eyes that had kept him searching remotely familiar faces with both hope and determination for over seventy-two months.

The brunette threw her head back, breaking into laughter. The resonance caused his anticipation to instantly fade, and his hope once again slunk off as she leaned in and dropped a kiss on her companion's lips. She jumped to her feet, glancing behind her and offering a friendly but disconnected smile to the eyes that had been analyzing her so cautiously. And as he finally caught full sight of her, expectedness once again kicked him back into reality. As always happened when he latched onto some unsuspecting woman who held even the faintest resemblance to what he needed to find, he was left only with disappointment. Whether it was tailing someone through a grocery store, or an airport, or down the street, he'd yet to be able to participate in the reunion he dreamed about. Time had begun to whittle away at his hope, just like it had done to everyone else who'd ever cared about her, and acceptance had begun to chase him just as ruthlessly as her memory continued to. And he knew, just like everyone else continued to tell him, that the time had long ago passed when he needed to believe the unbelievable and force himself to let go.

"We just passed the thirty minute mark on this date and you haven't started paying attention to me yet. So, what? Think it could happen soon, or should we just go ahead and chalk today up to a loss and try again tomorrow?"

Rick Hunter pulled his narrowed-eye stare away from the brunette in the back corner of the room, only skimming over the other occupied tables before focusing on the impatient face across from him. He resituated in the iron frame chair, nodding faintly and acknowledging that he'd once again been busted daydreaming. Taking hold of the lidded, Styrofoam cup, he pulled it across the tabletop toward him. Anyone else would be offended, and any other woman would throw her coffee in his face. But his fiancé was different. Not completely understanding, but tolerant. And while she might not be able to hide her disappointment, she rarely held it against him, either. What would be the point, anyway, when it filled almost as much of their time together as his preoccupation did?

"Sorry," Hunter responded. He shrugged a shoulder, directing his cup through a spin on the tabletop. "You were talking about caterers, and I told you it doesn't matter to me. Finger sandwiches, a full buffet… Do what you want."

"Do what I want." She sighed through a roll of her eyes. "You know, you are the one who proposed to me. The least you could do now that I've agreed to marry you is act a little excited."

"I'm excited," he countered. "And I'm listening."

"Now. But only because I guilted you into it."

She slinked back in her chair, crossing and then re-crossing her legs as she began to tap out an irritated melody against the tabletop with her fingernails. Sitting across from him, obviously annoyed, he couldn't remember her ever looking more beautiful. With her shoulder-length, blonde hair, big, hazel-colored eyes and lips twisted into a frown, she looked younger than she was but every bit as feisty and full of life.

"I get it, you know," she continued, tearing Hunter away from what had become characteristic brooding. "Out of everyone, you know I get it." Her gaze shifted to the tabletop as he slid his hands halfway across it, but she didn't reach for him, only cocked a brow and continued to stare. "So, I need you to understand something, too. Okay?" Her gaze rose, her eyes darkened by determination. "No matter what's in the past, it isn't going to make me give up my future. Maybe you can't let go yet; maybe you'll never be able to. But everyone else already has. What happened was awful. Jesus, we both know that. But I won't spend the rest of my life dwelling on it or living with it. Because it's…" She sighed, shaking her head. "For God's sake, it's too damned depressing."

Hunter scrubbed his chin with his fingertips. It was the same speech he'd heard a thousand different times and from a thousand different people over the past six years—to let go, move on, turn his back on the past and stop spinning his damned wheels. And he knew it was what he needed to do. He knew it was what he should do, or at least that was what his common sense kept telling him. But it was the tightness in his gut—the uneasiness that had maintained a stranglehold on his intuition—that wouldn't let him do it. Because just when he thought he was beginning to—that he finally could—let go, the dreams would start again.

Dreams about her.

Damn it, why couldn't anyone else see that it wasn't him who couldn't let go? It was her.

"You're wrong. I'm not—"

"Yes, you are," she interrupted. "You live with it, dwell on it—eat, sleep and breathe it. It's who you've become."

Hunter grunted in response. _Okay_. Maybe she had a point. He might have a tendency to tip the scale more toward irrationality than rationality. But it was how life had taught him to act. On a daily basis, his job alone gave him a front row seat to the perversion that lived in far more minds than it should, and there was no way he could ever explain to anyone else the perversion his own thoughts were capable of bringing to life. He knew what the monsters were capable of, and he knew that most of them were roaming freely disguised as normal people. They pounced without warning, when it was least expected, and sometimes—too many damned times—their attacks created more destruction than anyone had the energy to clean up.

He knew it. How couldn't he?

After all, he'd spent the better part of his career as part of the fucking clean-up crew.

"Rick."

His gaze lifted to find the hazel-colored eyes still staring. She wanted him to promise that he could turn his back on the past once and for all and follow her into the future—what he'd told her he wanted to be their future. But as much as he wanted it, as much as he wanted her, the past was still where he always ended up. Dwelling. Stagnant. Searching for answers to the same, unanswerable questions.

He nodded. "So. The caterer—"

She interrupted him with a sigh. "She was important to you, I know that. And I also know she chose to take the risks that she took. No one forced her."

He shook his head. No, no one had forced her. But damn it, he wished he'd been strong enough to stop her.

"It happened," she continued, "and it happened to her. It wasn't fair, it still isn't, and neither one of us can change that. But you know what?" She shrugged a shoulder, leaning into the table and lessening the distance between them. "In spite of the horrible things that happened, the world can still be a pretty okay place. It can even be kind of wonderful." She flashed a smile, sweet and sincere, reminding him of the qualities that had made him fall in love with her to begin with. "And you know what else? It wouldn't kill you to try and pretend the world is an okay place once in a while. I mean, just every now and then give yourself a break from the doom and gloom. Let it go. I know you don't believe it, but you do deserve to enjoy your life, too."

Hunter grumbled ambiguously, not agreeing or disagreeing with her. Although the weakening of her smile made it clear that she believed he was disagreeing with her. "You ready to go?" he asked, pushing back from the table. He nodded and climbed to his feet just a second after she did. Remaining a step behind her, he watched as she pushed through the door and merged with the congestion that filled the sidewalk. She walked with a light gait, one that exuded excitement, and he wished he could steal at least an ounce of her optimism for himself. He wished he could believe it, too—that he did deserve better, maybe he even deserved a little excitement of his own. Something more than the damned ghost that haunted his past and was keeping a firm grip on his present.

But he didn't believe it; he couldn't let himself.

At least not until his own, personal ghost made it clear it was what she believed, too.

**xxx**

**xxx**

**PART I, 1990**

**ONE**

It had rained most of the day, just a light, annoying mist.

Randomly, lightening flashed and thunder rolled, threatening that the sky would open up and clouds would burst, unleashing hell on earth. But so far, the threats had remained idle, intangible reminders only of Mother Nature's strength.

Hunter sat slumped in the straight-back chair, his attention stuck on the window across the room and the drops of water rolling down the outside of the glass. It was dark and gloomy outside, matching his mood, McCall had accused more than once. But he couldn't shake it—the nervousness in his stomach. He felt off, not himself. And he couldn't let go of his bad mood any more than McCall seemed able to tolerate it.

"Keep in mind, you don't have to accept this assignment." It was the fifth time Captain Devane had repeated the same sentiment. Each time he said it more firmly, with more conviction, and seemed even more disappointed when neither McCall nor Hunter took him up on his offer.

They sat side-by-side in front the captain's desk, studying the thick case file that had been hand-delivered. Every word written disgusted Hunter as much as angered him, and the more he read, the more his gut seemed to burn.

"The FBI and DEA plan to work this hard, and they need help—volunteers," Charlie continued. "But if it's not for you, that's okay. It'll also be the end of it, the last you'll hear about it. No one'll force you to do anything."

Hunter pulled his gaze from the file, glancing at a somber McCall beside him. She'd been quiet since they'd delved into the file, barely uttering a sound, never letting her attention stray. And he knew her well enough to know that her sullenness meant only one thing—the case was theirs, no matter how many times Charlie told them it didn't have to be.

"Drugs, prostitution, pornography, kidnapping, murder…" McCall exhaled loudly. "This guy's a real piece of work. One hell of a Boy Scout."

"This guy's a professional," Charlie corrected, the forcefulness of his voice causing both detectives to look up. "John Diego Velasquez is ruthless. He's been on the FBI's Most Wanted list for over twenty years, and his father was on it before him. The Velasquez family has run Colombia for years, not to mention parts of Brazil, Mexico, and the good old US of A. They're the biggest supplier of cocaine and opium known to the DEA, and Velasquez likes being on top. He's proven by leaving stacks of dead bodies wherever he goes that he'll do whatever it takes to keep his power."

"And the girls?" McCall asked. "What about them?"

"To start out, they're just mules," Charlie answered simply, through a shake of his head. "They carry the drugs from Colombia, are promised a green card when they get to America. But they end up getting turned out instead. Velasquez puts them to work, prostitutes them."

"So, after all these years, what makes the DEA think they're gonna be able to bring Velasquez down?" Hunter asked stiffly, slamming the folder closed and chucking it onto the edge of the captain's desk.

"They've had a man on the inside for a while," Charlie answered, rounding the side of his desk and taking a seat behind it. "Jordan Trask infiltrated right around eighteen months ago. From what I've heard, he's good at what he does; smart. And he's been able to build some solid connections inside Velasquez's world. At the beginning of the week, he was able to get word to his commander that Velasquez is scheduled to make an appearance in LA next month. It'll be the first time in around five years that he's stepped foot on American soil, as far as anyone knows."

"So, why now?" Hunter pressed. "What's so big that he's willing to risk his freedom?"

"That's the million dollar question," Charlie responded, jutting out his thumb in Hunter's direction. "What could be so big?"

McCall's brows creased, wrinkles marking her forehead. "Why us?" she asked. "Why does the DEA want our help? Wouldn't it make more sense to take people out of Narcotics?"

"They're asking for volunteers from Narcotics," Charlie answered, nodding, "and from Burglary, Vice—hell, every division. Velasquez won't travel light. He has an army of guerillas, and more than likely most of them will be with him. The DEA need the extra manpower. They've asked every precinct in the city to pool together as many volunteers as possible."

McCall shook her head. "We could lose a lot of people."

"Like I said, it's strictly volunteer," Charlie repeated. "You don't feel comfortable with it, say so. I'd never push you to take on this kind of assignment. Because you're right, McCall, we could lose a lot of people. All we can hope is Velasquez loses more and we get our hands on the scumbag before it's over."

"So, what exactly is the DEA asking?" Hunter posed, scooting to the edge of the chair and hunching forward, his elbows digging into the tops of his thighs. "None of us are trained for what they need. It'll be out-and-out combat. That's a lot different than what the cops around here are used to."

Charlie shook his head. "I don't have specifics, it's all being kept top secret. All I know is that some guy, uh…" He grabbed a second folder, his gaze following the tip of his finger down the length of the top page. "Gideon Stanton, he's spearheading the whole thing. He's FBI, working alongside the DEA. So, if you want the assignment, you'll report to him Monday morning, and I won't see you again until this thing is over. You'll go through special training, briefings on Velasquez, the whole nine yards. You'll be prepared before Velasquez steps foot in Los Angeles."

"And if we say, no?" McCall asked, although the conviction in her voice made it obvious that saying 'no' was the last thing on her mind. Velasquez was just the kind of lowlife she would love to get her hands on, Hunter knew—a pusher and user and exploiter that didn't care who his victims were. But she did care. Sometimes too much, Hunter sometimes worried.

"If you say no…" Charlie hesitated, his narrow-eyed stare drifting back and forth between the detectives, making it clear that 'no' was exactly the answer he hoped to hear from them. "Then you walk out of here, go back to your desks, and the three of us pretend this conversation never happened."

McCall turned toward Hunter, confronting him with a look of determination. The look that let him know, without a doubt, her mind was set. "I want to do it."

"It'll be dangerous," Hunter said, stating the obvious and not feeling nearly as assured as his partner seemed to.

She agreed with a nod. "This guy needs to be stopped. His whole family needs to be stopped. He poisons people with his drugs, and that's the best of what he does. What about all of the people he murders, that he sells and exploits? He's gotten away with it for too long, don't you think?"

"I think a lot of other people have tried to stop him and haven't been able to," Hunter grumbled, his jaw clenched. It was the type of war McCall and he had heard stories about throughout their careers, but not the type either had ever fought in. A hardcore criminal like John Diego Velasquez was out of their league, and Hunter wasn't too proud to admit it. Their list of success stories—in the form of solved cases—was small time compared to the brutal offenders the FBI and DEA regularly went up against. And even with the promise of special training to back the DEA's offer, Hunter couldn't help but feel it wouldn't be enough to prepare the raw city cops for the viciousness they would come face-to-face with once Velasquez stepped foot on American soil again.

"Don't do it if you're not comfortable with it," McCall said, the resolve darkening her eyes letting him know, undeniably, that she wasn't basing her decision on going in as partners. She'd made up her own mind, and she expected Hunter to do the same. "But I have to do it. I need to do something, you know? Stopping creeps like Velasquez is why I became a cop. I know the assignment is dangerous, and I'm willing to take the risk. But I don't want you to take it if you're not sure."

Hunter slumped in his chair, his stare stern, dissecting McCall's gritty expression. He didn't want the assignment, damn it, and he didn't want her to want it, either. What he did want was for both of them to walk out of Charlie's office and go back to their desks—and their comparatively simple caseload—and forget about the whole thing like Charlie promised they could do. But he knew if McCall was going to do it, so was he. Because the truth was, it would be more dangerous than either of them could imagine, and he wasn't about to let McCall charge into John Diego Velasquez's world if he wasn't following behind her, watching her back.

"You need to do this?" he asked, hoping that the past few seconds had managed to make her mind do a complete one-eighty. But when she answered only with the damned deep-seated stare that the past had taught him meant a win for her and trouble for him, he conceded without wasting any energy on fighting. "All right. Then let's do it."

"You're sure? Because you don't—"

"We're partners," he said. "Yeah, I do."

McCall hesitated, before agreeing with an understanding nod. Slowly, she pulled her stare from Hunter's, confronting Charlie. "Tell Gideon Stanton we'll be there Monday morning."

**xxx**

The ice cubes crackled, caught in the flow of liquid. Once the glasses were filled, the ice began to float, twirling and twisting. Struggling to stay above the surface rather than trapped beneath it.

Hunter sat the plastic pitcher on the countertop. Glancing over his shoulder and through the unlit living room, he sneaked a peek outside the door at the lone occupant on the porch. Dee Dee was nestled into a lawn chair, an orange and brown-striped afghan draped around her shoulders. Her dark hair rustled in the night breeze, whipping around her face and shoulders. The uneducated would assume she was lost in the thought, entranced by the rolling waves, but Hunter knew, in reality, she was distanced from them far more than just the beach's length. Her thoughts were in sync with his—reworking and replaying the training they'd endured the past four weeks. The month had been an exhausting one, with extra hours being demanded. And with D-Day less than forty-eight hours away, tension had started to mount among the fifty-plus cops that had accepted the DEA's cryptic invitation to, temporarily, become one of their own.

Turning back to the cabinet, Hunter pulled open the corner drawer. Inside, unpaid bills and unopened junk mail lay in a messy heap, and he dug through the top quarter of the stack before locating two identical envelopes with upper case, black lettering typed on their fronts.

R. HUNTER. D. McCALL.

He stole another secretive glance at Dee Dee, before opening one envelope and removing the airline ticket inside—first class seats with as much champagne as they could drink throughout their flight to Miami. It had taken a couple months of skimping, but he'd finally been able to afford the tickets, a two-bedroom suite at a four-star hotel on the beach and four days away from California, the damned DEA and any and all things stressful. It was exactly the treat they both deserved after the extra hours they'd invested in the Velasquez operation, and he could almost hear Dee Dee's surprised laughter when they settled into their seats in first class and the attendant handed her the first glass of champagne. He could also imagine the look of delight in her eyes once she realized the lengths he'd gone to to plan their private getaway. Admittedly, Hunter wasn't brave enough to place any bets on whether or not the trip would end the way he wanted, so he'd settled for hoping. But the ending didn't really matter, he'd already decided. What he was looking most forward to was time alone with Dee Dee.

He ran his finger across the ticket, smiling. He'd spent what felt like a lifetime mulling over the idea and working up his nerve to make the arrangements, and he'd put even more time into planning how he would tell her. Once they were finally free and clear of their obligations to the DEA, he would take her to her favorite restaurant for dinner. They would be dressed to the hilt and dine over candlelight, and he would call ahead and have a bottle of her favorite red wine waiting at the table for them. And once the wine had pushed them past the mark of relaxation, he would finally recite the speech that he'd rewritten and rehearsed a hundred different times. He would tell her how he felt—how he'd continued to feel since their unplanned and, in Hunter's opinion, unforgettable night together over a year earlier. And then he would pray that she felt the same way. He hoped, like him, that she was ready to take their relationship beyond friendship, and his intuition was telling him that she was.

And he hoped to hell that this one time his damned intuition wasn't playing him for a fool.

His thoughts screeched to a stop as Dee Dee leaned inside the doorway and draped him with a comfortable smile. "You know, Hunter, a girl could die of thirst out here," she teased. "Think you'll be bringing that tea out tonight?"

He returned her smile and grabbed the glasses off the countertop, hurrying through the living room and joining her on the porch. By the time he walked out of the house, she was settled back in the chair, the afghan once again hugging her shoulders. He handed her a glass before taking a seat in the weathered chair beside hers, and then followed her silent lead and focused on the choppy water across the beach.

Dee Dee shot a quick, sideways glance at him, her stare returning to the water before he looked over at her. "You're still sure about this?" she asked, her voice soft, the breeze swirling around them threatening to steal it altogether.

"Are you?" he asked, her firm nod his answer. It was the answer he still didn't want, the answer he would be willing to trade almost anything to replace with an even more fixed no.

She sighed, cupping the glass between her hands. "I can't explain it, but this is something I need to do. It's like the more we learned about Velasquez, the more sure I felt. I need to be a part of the team that finally stops him." She exhaled loudly, with finality. "When I think about the things he's done, you know, all the people he's hurt…the girls who've gotten lost because of him…" She shook her head, her shoulders slumping.

"Even if we catch Velasquez, someone else will take over for him, you know. Someone else will ship drugs around the world, murder people, and sell kids on the street. Nothing will really change."

"But at least we'll have stopped _him_," she returned, convicted. "And that'll count for something. Right?"

He nodded, although he didn't feel nearly as certain as Dee Dee seemed to. "Maybe it will. But there's also a possibility we won't walk out of that warehouse tomorrow."

She turned toward him, her eyes darkened by the understanding that she'd already made peace with that conclusion. "It's a possibility, but I don't think it'll happen." She smiled faintly, assuredly. "We're gonna walk out, and we're gonna do it together."

"Okay," he said, maintaining her lie with a hesitant nod. "So, we'll walk out together."

Her smile broadened fleetingly, with gratitude, and she let a moment of silence slip between them before whispering, "You're the best friend I've ever had, you know."

"Don't," he disagreed, needing to stop her sentiment. Because if he didn't, there was a good chance she would push him to the point of changing his mind. And he already understood that his mind would be the only one that changed. "Sounds like you're trying to say goodbye, and if we're going to walk out of that warehouse together, there's no reason to say goodbye."

"Yeah, I know. I just needed to say it, I guess. It's something I wanted you to know. And not just now, but for a long time."

He hesitated, his jaw pulsating. "Okay. So, maybe I want you to know the same thing." Backing his admission with a nod, he slid his hand through the darkness in search of hers. And once their fingers were locked and they had settled into silence again, he stole a last glance at her.

**xxx**

The night was cooler than normal. The sky was dotted with stars and the moon was full. Its rays were bright, raining down on the city, giving clarity to what was typically shadowed by darkness.

The warehouse was isolated, situated at the end of a narrow alleyway. It was big, ominous, with blackened windows and steel doors. Hunter and McCall had taken refuge in their mandated hiding spot—behind a grouping of trash receptacles. They looked down on the alleyway from a five-foot incline, watching even though they weren't sure what they were looking for. They'd remained in virtual silence throughout the late afternoon and evening hours, both intent on catching any new movements, anything suspicious. Their particular orders were burned into their brains—locate and remove the DEA's inside man, Jordan Trask, from the scene as quickly as possible. If Velasquez or any of his men even suspected that Trask was the informant, they would gun for him first. And the DEA needed the eight-year veteran alive and able to complete his assignment by becoming the star-witness at the trial everyone felt cautiously confident would happen and would finally end John Diego Velasquez's brutal reign.

Slumping against the middle receptacle in the row of three, Dee Dee tugged at the stiff bulletproof vest that was cinched around her torso and half-hidden beneath the black windbreaker. She squinted, giving the peeping Man in the Moon a passing glance only, before turning her attention on a rigid Hunter beside her. His jaw was clenched and expression tensed, making it clear that his nerves were another five minutes away from abandoning him completely. And in a way, knowing that made her jealous, because hers had turned tail and run four weeks earlier. "Maybe Trask was wrong," she whispered. "Maybe Velasquez isn't going to show."

"Trask hasn't gotten word to anyone that plans have changed," Hunter grumbled. "Velasquez will be here. Just taking his time, is all."

"They thought he would be here before dark. It's been dark for, what, a couple of hours already?" She huffed a breath. "It's going to be harder to tell who's who in the dark, you know? It'll make everything…tougher." Sliding out of her spot, she settled in shoulder-to-shoulder with Hunter. "I don't like this. Something doesn't feel right."

"Relax. Since when have you been a stickler for punctuality, McCall? You're the one who's usually late."

"Yeah, well. What about Stanton? We haven't heard anything from him since we got into position."

Special Agent Gideon Stanton was in charge of the task force, but he'd chosen to work more from behind the scenes instead of alongside his recruits and agents. He overloaded them with memos and files and diagrams, but rarely bothered to make any personal appearances at briefings or training sessions. And Hunter and she weren't the only task force members that had spent the better part of the month feeling all but abandoned by the man they were supposed to look to for leadership.

Hunter grunted under his breath. "Guess we need to hope he's better with action than conversation."

"Yeah. Guess so."

No sooner had their halfhearted wish been made when the voice blared through Hunter's handheld radio: "Change of plans," Gideon Stanton barked, static backing his voice. "Unit B goes in on the south side, Unit F takes the west side. Unit C, hang back—no moving out of position unless the command is given. You've just become backup. Hunter and McCall, hope you're still awake out there. Your orders haven't changed. Find Trask and get him out, that's all you have to worry about. But you'll be on your own. I can't send any backup as originally planned. So you need help, you'll have to signal for it." Static screamed over the speaker, before Stanton signed off. "Hang tough, people. Our guest of honor should be arriving any minute."

"What the hell is he doing?" Dee Dee hissed, spinning toward Hunter. "He's changing things now? All the drills we practiced, the—" She groaned, shaking her head. "Right before Velasquez is supposed to show up the son of a bitch decides to change everything? What's this guy doing—trying to get us all killed?"

"I don't know what he's doing," Hunter grumbled in return, his stare narrowed on the warehouse less than five hundred feet in the distance. "Let's not worry about that now, huh? Our assignment hasn't changed, which means we know what we need to do. Right? And that is, we go in, we find Trask, and we get the hell back out. Just that simple."

"Simple, right," she said with a soft, disbelieving laugh. "Except now we don't have backup. We're on our own, you do realize that, right?"

"I realize it," he answered tightly, "and I'm not worried. We can handle it."

Dee Dee wondered whose nerves Hunter was trying to calm with his forced optimism—hers or his own? Because truth be told, he hadn't made a dent in hers. She'd reached the precarious point where panicking felt more like an actuality than possibility, and if either gave into the hysteria they wouldn't be any good to the DEA, or Jordan Trask, or each other. Which meant they had to stay calm—sharp and focused. No matter what kind of crap Gideon Stanton pushed on them. Because once Velasquez showed up and Stanton gave the signal to move in, Hunter and she would have to get into the warehouse fast and back out even faster.

"Just relax," Hunter added. "We know what to do."

"Relax…" she repeated, Hunter's command mingled with a heavy exhale. "You want to tell me how I'm supposed to do that? We're just about to come face-to-face with one of the most notorious criminals in the world, and now the guy who's supposed to keep us all together just changed every setup we've had in place since our training started. We don't know how many men are in the warehouse, or how many Velasquez is bringing with him, and now we don't even know where in the hell the good guys are going to be. And you want me to relax?" She chuckled lightly, frowning. "Fat chance."

"Hey. You're the one that pushed for this assignment, remember?"

She cringed visibly, through a roll of her eyes. "Don't remind me."

"Come on, Dee Dee," he said, casting a sideways glance at her. "It'll be over before you know it."

She groaned softly, with a shake of her head. "Do me a favor? Don't try to make a living as an inspirational speaker. Hard to believe, I know, but _It'll be over before you know it_ doesn't exactly make me feel better. It's a little too vague for my taste." Her frown deepened, wrinkles spraying across her forehead. "And why'd you call me Dee Dee? You only call me Dee Dee when you're serious about something. So, do me a favor, huh, and stick with McCall for the rest of the night? It'll make me feel better."

Hunter shook his head, scowling. "No matter what kind of crap Stanton is trying to pull, we're ready for this."

"I hope you're right." She relaxed slightly, cautiously, and loosened the death grip she had maintained on her revolver since nestling in among the trash-filled dumpsters. "Look, uh. You know, on the off chance you're not right…I, uh. I need to ask you something." She hesitated, nervously licking her lips. "Just hear me out, all right? Don't act like this doesn't matter, because…I mean. I need to tell you this before we go inside."

Hunter gritted his teeth, his jaw clenching and veins in his neck popping.

"Rick, just listen," Dee Dee pressed, ignoring his obvious discomfort. "I, uh. The thing is, I have a…a will. It seemed the smart thing to do after Steve was killed, you know?" She took in a breath, holding onto the air for a dragging minute before releasing it in one, hard exhale. "It's in my safety deposit box. It's not like I have much, just a little in savings, but it'd help out with, uh. You know…expenses. I mean, if—"

"I know," he broke in, not making eye contact.

She sighed, her shoulders slumping. "The deed to my house is in the box, too, and all the other documents anyone would need. It's all there. And, uh, and…you're named on everything. I'd just. I'd rather you took care of it. My parents, it'd be too tough for them."

It was the first time they had ever discussed details with each other—_the_ details. Details that only needed to be known if the other was gone. Details that, together, they both put more energy into hiding from rather than confronting. But on her own, Dee Dee did think about them, Steve had forced her to. And she needed Hunter to understand that she was prepared, even though she knew that having to see the details through would be tougher on him than anyone else. "It's a lot to ask," she continued. "But I need to know you'll take care of it for me—just in case. It makes sense to think about, you know? Especially considering what we're about to do."

"You called me Rick. You told me not to call you Dee Dee, so why'd you call me Rick?"

She chuckled softly, grateful that he was able to momentarily lift her mood and ease her nerves.

"Nothing's going to happen," he said.

"I'm not saying it is. I'm just saying it's smart to be prepared."

He nodded, the slight gesture screaming out his reluctance. "It's smart. And I'll take care of it."

She smiled fleetingly, with the semblance of relief. But the feeling disappeared before she could fully grab hold of it, as the main door to the warehouse was slid open a fraction and then closed again just as quickly. Dee Dee caught a glance from Hunter, one that overwhelmed her with a sense of intensity that she'd never before felt or witnessed in him. And the stiff nod of his head that followed confirmed it was the signal they'd been waiting for—the time for second-guessing decisions had past.

"The last thing we need is to get separated, so stay close," Hunter mandated. "It's the same plan as always. We get in, we get out."

"I wasn't planning to stick around and make conversation," she deadpanned. Her whisper had barely fallen between them before a sleek, black limousine came into view. It traveled slowly down the alley, almost too slowly, looking out of place in the dingy surroundings. Halfway down, it came to a stop, idling as the garage door leading into the warehouse was opened fully.

"Looks like this is it," Hunter said. "Keep your eyes open."

Dee Dee nodded, her nerves too unpredictable to allow her to speak. She rose onto her haunches, breathlessly awaiting the signal to move in. It was given faster than anticipated, prompting a barrage of black-coated cops and DEA agents into motion. They began a silent advance, Hunter and Dee Dee leaving the safety of their hiding place and joining in. A few steps before entering the warehouse, they heard the warning shout from Gideon Stanton, followed by gun blasts, and trading encouraging glances, they entered the building. Mayhem had already overtaken the massive space, and their focuses turned to dodging bullets, finding temporary shelter and searching out Jordan Trask.

"To your right, McCall!"

She heard Hunter's scream, his frenzied voice almost drowned out by the gunfire and shouts echoing dizzyingly off the metal walls. Turning in the direction he commanded, she saw Trask huddled behind a row of oil barrels, taking sporadic shots into the chaos inside the building.

"Hunter and McCall, LAPD.!" Dee Dee barked, Hunter and she sliding up to the DEA agent. "Move, Trask! We're getting you out of here!"

It all seemed simple, too simple, the thought came to her fleetingly. She grabbed Trask's arm and tugged him toward her, as a bullet whizzed past her head. Cowering behind a metal drum as another bullet, and then another, whistled by her, she didn't have time to get off her own shot before Hunter's lanky frame pummeled against hers and sent her sprawling onto the concrete floor. The unexpected force sent her gun flying out of her hand, and she watched helplessly as it spun out of reach. But her attention was quickly diverted as Hunter began to moan and curse, and as he rolled off her and onto his back, she saw the fresh patch of blood discoloring his pant leg.

"Get the hell out of here, Trask!" she screamed, climbing onto her knees and pressing her hands against Hunter's blood-soaked leg.

"Where am I heading?" Trask shouted, ducking and dodging bullets.

"Left outside the door!" Dee Dee yelled. "There's a black van parked about two hundred yards down the alley! DEA agents are inside waiting for you! Identify yourself first, or they'll blow your head off! Orders are to shoot first and ask questions later!"

"Go with him, McCall!" Hunter commanded, struggling to sit up. "Get him out of here!"

"Damn it! We're walking out together!" she argued, leaning over a flushed-face Hunter. The gun blast erupted behind her, and she instinctively fell against her partner. The shot caused Hunter to jerk violently, before falling back onto the floor with his partially opened eyes dazed and clouded. "Hunter!" She slammed her hands down against his chest, needing to determine whether or not his vest had done its job of protecting him. But before she could make her diagnosis, another blast exploded behind her, and she watched Jordan Trask crumple to the ground, blood instantly seeping through and staining his pale blue t-shirt. Spinning around, she tried to pry the gun out of Hunter's rigid hand, but instead found herself face-to-face with the barrel of a semi-automatic pistol. She tore her frantic stare away from the gun, raising it to the emotionless face of the man who possessed it. Watching, wide-eyed, as he raised it above her head and then swiftly lowered it, with brutal force.


	2. Chapter 2

**TWO**

The drips of water had taken on the rumble of a waterfall. Each drop echoed when it landed on the concrete floor, seeming to rattle everything around it.

Or maybe that was just her head that was rattling.

Dee Dee struggled to open her eyes, and once she managed, instantly regretted it. The room spun around her, the wooden crates that lined the walls seeming to levitate in the thick air, and the harder she tried to focus, the more intense the nausea burned her stomach.

Silhouettes floated past her, flying from one side of the room to the other, always screaming words that she didn't understand. She tried to focus on the fists and feet as they beat against the unidentifiable form sprawled in the center of the room, and tried to separate its pained screams that had become mixed with the emotion-charged demands continuing to be shouted at deafening levels. But she couldn't recognize voices, or decipher the meanings of words, and so she let the haze have control again over her mind, like it so badly wanted.

When she opened her eyes again, not knowing how much time had passed, not even sure if she cared, the dizziness left from the blow to her head had morphed into a raging headache. She squinted against the pain, trying to gain her bearings—the concrete room, dripping water, cold, and the bloodied body of Jordan Trask lying in front of her on the floor.

Dee Dee used the wall for support, pushing herself into a sitting position. The movement brought the dizziness back in full force, and she blinked quickly, hard, until her vision cleared. "Trask…" she managed to whisper, her voice hoarse and rough, foreign to her. She cleared her throat, wincing through the burn, but before she could say anything else, hands landed against her shoulders and shoved her back against the wall.

She could've sworn her head exploded, and she moaned in retaliation to the newest wave of pain. Faces appeared in front of her, lowering to eye level. Two men studied her with dark, hardened eyes, before one poked the tip of his finger into her chest, whispering through yellowed, clenched teeth, "Policia!"

The other man, younger and leaner than the first, broke into a wide, amused grin, elbowing his comrade in the ribs.

Dee Dee groaned, keeping the back of her head braced against the wall. "I don't…" she began breathlessly. "I, uh, don't…speak…Spanish…" She closed her eyes, reopening them quickly, as the first man twisted his finger in the loose material of her shirt and screamed into her face, "Policia! Digame!"

Dee Dee pulled in a ragged breath, forcing down the air with an arduous swallow. "I…I don't…no…no habla Espan—"

"Digame!"

"She doesn't speak Spanish, you morons!" a third man chided, sliding in between the other two. Staring down at Dee Dee, a tight smile stretched his lips. His hair was cropped short, Dee Dee decided, based on how little of it she could see peeking out beneath the New York Yankees ball cap he was wearing, and from what little he'd said so far, she thought she'd picked up an East Coast accent—New Jersey, maybe? His eyes were hidden behind gold, wire-rimmed sunglasses, and Dee Dee could see her reflection in the mirrored lenses—how pale her skin looked in contrast to the bruise that stained the right side of her forehead. And she wondered, how could the man in the cap could see at all considering how dimly lit the room was?

"She's a cop." New Jersey announced it with authority, like he already knew.

Dee Dee didn't respond, but instead let her gaze bypass his hidden eyes and settle on Jordan Trask. He lay motionless, bruised and bloodied in the center of the room. But the dimness and small distance that separated them made it impossible for her to determine whether or not he was dead or alive.

"You're LAPD, right?" New Jersey growled, forcing Dee Dee's attention back on him. She stared, wide-eyed, her lips fluttering but voice lost. Grunting an impatient, "Looks like we need a little persuasion to start talking," he drew back his arm, his hand fisting, ready to strike. But instead, he only smiled, tightly and heartlessly, as she cowered against the wall, readying herself for the blow.

"Stop! Don't touch her!"

The voice sliced through the room, harsh and stern, commanding. Dee Dee pressed back against the wall, watching as the imposing shadow, slowly and ominously, gained human characteristics. His face was smooth, his features chiseled. He stared at her, unblinking, with coal-colored eyes, his dark hair swept back off his face and gelled into place. His stature was tall and masculine, his complexion tanned. And the smile he greeted her with left her feeling cold—hopeless.

He looked over Dee Dee's crumpled form with narrowed eyes, grunting his disapproval before rattling off an obvious question that hit her ringing ears sounding like gibberish.

She shook her head slowly, with effort. "I, I don't…understand Spanish," she responded. "I don't know what you're saying."

"We know he's DEA," New Jersey translated, motioning toward Trask with a flit of his head. "How do you know him?"

She answered with a second shake of her head, fighting to see through the mirrored lenses of New Jersey's sunglasses. They were throwing a Catch 22 at her, daring her to answer. If she agreed that Jordan Trask was DEA, that she knew even that much about him, it would seal both their fates. Which meant, if by some faint chance Trask were still alive, he wouldn't stay that way much longer. And adding guilt by association into the equation meant she wouldn't, either.

"Digame!" the leader demanded, his deep voice resonating off the stark walls.

"I don't know what you're saying!" Dee Dee whimpered, her desperate stare floating across the row of men, before settling on New Jersey. "Tell him I don't understand!"

The leader stepped up to the group, the hard soles of his shoes echoing against the concrete floor. Slowly, he knelt down, coming eye to eye with a tensed Dee Dee. Grasping her chin in his large hand, he tugged her face closer to his. "Trust me, you'll understand soon enough," he said, his voice low and angry. "You'll understand more than you wish you did. Now. Tell me. How do you know him?"

Dee Dee fought down a breath. No matter how much or how little information she gave, they would kill her. The leader was right; she didn't need to understand what they were saying to understand their intentions. "I, I…" She took in another, shallower breath, glancing fleetingly at Trask. "I, uh. I…don't know…who…he is. I thought he worked for…you."

The leader chuckled lowly, under his breath. Rising to his feet, he glanced down the row of stone-faced men until, one by one, each broke a condescending smile. "She doesn't know who he is?" His laughter escalated, and he elbowed New Jersey in the side. "Not only beautiful but also deceitful, yes?"

"No," Dee Dee whispered. "No, I'm telling the truth. All right? I don't know who he is. I've never seen him before."

Without prompting or warning, New Jersey pulled a pistol out of the waistband of his blue jeans and spun around. Needing only a split second to take aim, he pulled the trigger twice, landing a bullet in both of Trask's thighs. The agent screamed out as the bullets tore through his flesh, flinching and rolling atop the unforgiving floor. With Trask's cries still echoing, Dee Dee shot forward, away from the wall and buried her face against her bent knees, the gun blasts dying out ominously. But she didn't look at Trask, she couldn't. Because the bullets he'd just taken hadn't evoked the feelings in her that they should. She didn't feel sympathy or pity for him; she was only able to think about Hunter. The blasts brought back to life the vivid image of him lying wounded in the warehouse, and she couldn't stop herself from wondering if he'd become a casualty in the war against John Diego Velasquez, also? The damned, pointless war that she'd insisted they fight in, even though she'd known Hunter hadn't wanted to.

In front of her, she heard movement, deliberate and calculated, and she felt a warm breath wash across the side of her face. Squeezing her eyes closed, she concentrated on the rapid beats of her heart as they pulsed in her ears and vibrated inside her chest. Jordan Trask was in the process of dying, and Hunter might have already completed it. And she would be next to begin it.

"Look at me."

Fingers glided down the side of her face, causing her to flinch. As demanded, she raised her head, expecting to find the barrel of the pistol staring back at her but finding heartless and impassive eyes, instead.

"My name is Oscar Velasquez," he growled, his fingers curling into the side of her hair, pulling gently. "John Diego Velasquez was my father, and now he's dead. Killed by your DEA and FBI. So, what I want to know is, how did they know where to find him? Who told them where he would be?"

Dee Dee whimpered softly, breathlessly, finding herself unable to pull her stare from his hollow one. "I don't know. I told you, I'm not with the DEA…or, or…FBI."

"But you were at my father's warehouse."

"As a police officer. My partner and I…we…we, there was a call over the radio. It said there was gunfire, and we were close by, so we, uh. We had to check it out. But we didn't know what was going on."

He leaned back, dragging his fingers through her hair, pulling the strands until reaching the ends and breaking free. Chuckling under his breath, he glanced up at New Jersey, before returning his attention to a wide-eyed Dee Dee. "You're a liar, and a bad one."

"No. It's the truth. I'm telling the truth."

Velasquez shot another glance at New Jersey. "Do you believe her, Tony? You think she's telling the truth?" He chuckled again, the resonance forced, angry. "This partner and she got a call on their radio, and as luck would have it, it took them to the very warehouse where the DEA was waiting to ambush my father—to gun him down in cold blood." He took in a breath, sharp and echoing, and turned back toward Dee Dee. "Liar."

"No!" Dee Dee argued, Velasquez digging his fingers into the side of her hair again. "I don't know anything about your father! I'm a cop, all right! I was just answering a call—doing my job!"

"Just a cop?" Velasquez hissed, fisting his hand in her hair. "Tell me your name."

Dee Dee forced down a swallow. "McCall."

"Your position with the police?"

"Sergeant. I'm, uh. I'm a detective. Homicide."

"Hmm," Velasquez mumbled, seeming as surprised as impressed. "What do you think, Tony? Both beautiful and intelligent, yes?"

"Whatever you say," New Jersey returned impatiently. "But you really want my opinion? Doesn't matter what you think about her, she's still a liability. It's just as risky to have her around as it is him." He jutted his thumb in the direction of a still-moaning Trask. "DEA, FBI, cop, or just a bored housewife, what's it matter? This isn't Colombia, Oscar. Trust me, people have already started looking for them—both of them."

"Mm. Possibly." Velasquez nodded. "But I'm not ready to kill them yet." He unburied his hand from Dee Dee's hair, his fingers sliding down the side of her face. "You're a handsome woman."

Dee Dee shook her head, tilting her head to the side, away from his hand. "Look. I'm telling the truth. All right? I don't know anything,"

Velasquez chuckled, nodding with understanding of her fear but disbelieving her admittance. Wrapping his fingers around her chin, his eyes narrowed as he studied her flushed face. "I don't believe you. But still, I'm not ready for you to die yet. Not quite yet."

**xxx**

_Motherfucking Feds_.

Climbing out of his chair with the speed and energy of being weighted by an extra one hundred pounds, Hunter hobbled into the captain's office as the two suits made themselves comfortable in an atmosphere that, at best, had made a swift shift from frustrated to volatile. His glare fixed on Gideon Stanton first, slouched against the far wall with his hands buried in the front pockets of his damned, tailored pants. And even though Hunter stared daggers through him, the son of a bitch didn't make eye contact.

To Stanton's right, the second jackass was also propped up against the wall. Hunter had never seen him before, but he was sure if he got any closer he would pick up the unmistakable stink of FBI on him, too. He looked the part—pants tailored, a silk tie hanging down the front of his perfectly pressed shirt, dark hair slicked back with enough gel to make him look seedier than trustworthy, arrogance discoloring his eyes, and a beefed up, overly tanned physique that made it obvious appearances were more important to him than integrity. Christ. It was exactly what they didn't need—one more bureaucratic bastard whose over-inflated FBI ego made him believe he had the right to talk down to them.

When he felt like talking to them at all, that was.

"Sergeant Hunter, Special Agent Riley Porter," Stanton introduced offhandedly, with a small tilt of his head in the other agent's direction. "So, Sergeant. How's the leg? Think you're gonna live?"

Hunter answered with a sneer only and fought to hide his limp as he made his way to the center of the office. "No one's in the mood for your comedy routine, Stanton. Just tell us what you've got."

"We don't plan to let the FBI shut us out of this," Captain Devane added, his deportment leaning toward standoffish as his stare drifted between Gideon Stanton and Riley Porter. "Obviously, you're aware that I have a detective that's missing, and it doesn't take a moron to understand her life is in danger. So, I'm going to need a damn good reason before I give any kind of order telling my people to walk away."

"You should be getting a call from the Bureau Director any minute telling you to do just that," Stanton responded, more matter of fact than with any hint of emotion. "With all due respect, Captain, the Velasquez's are our problem. Not yours."

"And my detective?" Charlie shot back. "Whose problem is she? Because I'll be honest with you, Agent Stanton, you don't seem all that concerned about her."

"Captain Devane," Riley Porter interjected, a hand raised in an attempt to defuse the mounting emotions in the room. "You have the word of the entire Bureau that Sergeant McCall is as much of a priority for us as she is for the LAPD. We're doing everything possible to find her."

"Yeah? Like what?" Hunter snapped, squaring his shoulders as the stares in the room landed on him. Screw the Feds' damned Certificates of Achievement from Quantico. They weren't going to muscle their way into his territory and force him to bow down to their government-backed intimidation tactics. He had a right to answers, and if they wanted him to take even one step back, they'd damn well better start giving the answers he wanted to hear.

"Again, Sergeant," Stanton spoke up, "with all due respect, this case far surpasses this unit's knowledge or abilities. I think it's best—"

"And I think it's best if you help us understand why we're being expected to stand down in _this_ particular case," Charlie interrupted. "With all due respect, Agent Stanton, we have a personal stake in this, and none of us are going to step back willingly and let you hang one of our own out to dry."

Stanton chuckled, shooting Porter a glance. With a sigh, he stepped away from the wall, folding his bulky arms over his chest. "As you know, we had John Diego Velasquez under surveillance for years," he said, his tone hinting at pacification versus any type of interest in—or obligation to—enlighten. "Mr. Velasquez was the son of a Colombian kingpin, and he spent his entire life being trained to take over for his father. To this day, the Velasquez family maintains strong ties with this country."

"Strong enough ties to have gone into the multi-importing business, as you know," Porter added, a brow arching. "They move cocaine, opium…girls."

"Since inheriting the business from his father," Stanton continued. "John Diego kept his position as King of the Hill. In Colombia, he was as feared and revered."

"And now he's dead," Hunter pushed. "So, what does his past history have to do with McCall?"

"Because there's no reason to believe the business will die along with him," Porter said. "He had his own son—Oscar. The majority of the time, Oscar operates in the states. He's based out of Miami, oversees the family shipping business. That's how they move a good majority of their merchandise."

"A good majority?" Charlie asked. "What about the rest of it?"

"Mules, of course," Stanton answered, matter of fact. "That's where the females come in."

"They're all young, uneducated," Porter continued. "John Diego gets the girls out of Colombia, and Oscar takes care of them once they get here. He either puts them to work for the family, or sells them off along with the drugs they bring with them."

"Yeah, well. John Diego is out of the equation now," Hunter said. "So, what about Oscar? Where do we find him?"

"Sergeant Hunter," Porter spoke up. "We've been tracking Oscar Velasquez almost as long as we have his father. But it always ends up being the same story, whatever move we make, somehow he's a step ahead of us. We can never seem to pin anything significant on him. The charges he has are all relatively minor—at least in comparison to what we know they should be."

"Great," Hunter grumbled. "So, what's your incompetence going to do for McCall now?"

"Hopefully, save her life," Stanton hissed impatiently, taking a step closer to a rigid Hunter. "Right now, we have people working around the clock trying to identify and locate any and all of the Velasquez's compounds. With John Diego dead, Oscar's obviously the most likely candidate to be holding both Sergeant McCall and Special Agent Trask."

"He's got to know the FBI is close," Charlie said. "So, what makes you think he'd stick around, waste his time on McCall and Trask? Wouldn't it make more sense for him to get out of the country, head to Colombia?"

Stanton answered first with a shake of his head. "Oscar's going to need to avenge his father's death. It's a power play, and right now, he knows the entire underworld is watching and waiting for him to make a move. He has to keep the family business from toppling off the top of the hill, so he can't show any weakness. Which means, somehow, he has to stand up to the FBI."

Charlie stepped out from behind his desk, joining Hunter in the center of the room. "Then what about McCall? What's being done to find her?"

"Everything possible," Porter said.

"Which doesn't tell us squat," Hunter shot back. "Why don't you try sharing something more specific than a whole lot of nothing?"

Stanton shook his head, shooting a complacent smile at the floor. "We aren't going to find someone like Oscar Velasquez taking a Sunday drive down the Pacific Coast Highway, especially if he is responsible for Sergeant McCall's and Special Agent Trask's disappearances. He's far from stupid, and he's good at hiding. Obviously, he's gone underground for the moment, and if he does have your sergeant, odds are that's where he took her, too." He dipped his hands into the front pockets of his trousers, rattling loose change. "Keep in mind, this mission isn't over. John Diego went down, and we're glad about that. So, now the FBI is concentrating on Oscar. Finding him is a priority."

_Motherfucker_, Hunter's narrowed eyes screamed, a flare of his nostrils reinforcing his sentiment as both Stanton and Porter glanced in his direction. John Diego and Oscar Velasquez were bigger priorities; their worthless lives were more important than Dee Dee's venerable one. What the hell would it matter to the Feds if Dee Dee went down, anyway? They would simply categorize her as one more of the Velasquez's casualties, maybe their latest victim. Her death would be reacted to with _"tsk, tsk"_ and _"It's a real shame,"_ but there wouldn't be any mourning tossed in for humanity's sake. She would be seen as a necessary sacrifice, a means to an end result that was more important than her survival.

"Surely you can understand if we don't share the FBI's feelings," Charlie responded firmly. "As far as which priority we think should be the top one, that is."

"We understand," Stanton said. "I met Sergeant McCall myself. Trust me, Captain Devane, I don't want anything to happen to her—"

"Something's already happened to her!" Hunter hissed, jumping forward a step, his hands balling into fists. "So, why don't you stop talking in circles and tell us what you're doing to stop anything _else_ from happening?"

"Sergeant Hunter," Stanton sighed, "you need to calm down—"

"Why?" Hunter shot back. "You seem calm enough for everybody. Too calm, if you ask me."

"Hunter," Charlie reprimanded softly, through a shake of his head. "Let's hear them out. At this point, we don't have any other choice."

Stanton sighed again, the heavy breath weighted by condescension. "We're doing everything we know to do," he answered. "A new task force has been assembled to work solely on this case. Every man that we know works for both John Diego and Oscar Velasquez is being kept under surveillance."

"The Velasquez's own several warehouses in the LA area," Porter interjected. "Two have already been raided, and we have informants working inside the other three. So far, though, no one's seen or heard anything about Sergeant McCall."

"What about Junior?" Hunter pushed. "Who's watching him?"

"Like I said," Stanton returned, "we're still trying to locate him. But for all we know, he's already left the country. Right now, Oscar Velasquez could be sunning himself on a beach in Colombia, waiting out the storm before he comes back to the states."

"Has anyone checked the beaches in Colombia?" Hunter asked, sarcasm as thick as anger in his voice.

"Sergeant Hunter," Porter responded. "We're checking everywhere. Trust me."

"Trust you, right," Hunter laughed. "McCall tried that before, didn't she? And considering where it got her, what in the hell should make me think it'll work out any better for either of us this time?"

**xxx**

The wood crumbled inside of her grasp, the aged splinters raining down on the concrete floor.

Dee Dee clutched at the rotted window seal with more force, pulling herself onto her tiptoes and glimpsing outside. From her limited vantage point, she could see a house. It was separated from the small building Jordan Trask and she had been kept in by a gravel drive. It was large—two story, Colonial-style with four white pillars lining the front porch and every window that she could see blackened by drapes. To the right, just barely in her sight, was a car. Half-rusted with one flat tire, but able to run, she prayed—although where she needed it to take her, she wasn't sure. To the left, at the end of the drive, a thick row of trees hid whatever world existed beyond the compound. And other than howls of the wind, no sounds were detectable, at least nothing indicative of the city.

It was quiet.

Serene, she ironically thought.

Or at least it felt that way in an ominous, Grimm's Fairytale sort of way.

Releasing her death grip on the sill, she sank down on flatfeet and then dropped to the floor, settling in beside Jordan Trask. Once they'd finally been left alone, she'd managed to prop Trask against the wall. Moving his six-foot-plus frame the short distance had all but drained what little energy she had left, and she knew she wouldn't be able to help him move any further without help. But with the bullet wounds impairing his legs and the still-oozing wound in his upper back from the warehouse, she feared he didn't have the stamina to make the short trek to the car.

"We have to get out of here," Dee Dee whispered, wiping her dirt-stained hands against the tops of her thighs. She spotted the faint but distinct blood stains that still marked her skin—Hunter's blood—and she forced her partner out of her mind. She couldn't let herself become distracted, not even with Hunter. And the sight of Trask's pale face reminded her just how dire it was that she remain focused. "They're going to come back, and we need to be gone when they do."

Trask cringed openly, rolling his head against the wall. "Look at me, McCall," he rasped. "There's no way I can walk. You go, leave me here."

"They'll kill you!" Dee Dee hissed, hitting him with a wide-eyed stare. "Look. There's a car out front, all right? We just have to get to it. I can hotwire it."

He mulled over her idea, before grumbling his disagreement.

"Come on, damn it," she reproached, her voice absent of the sympathy he deserved. "It's only…I don't know. Maybe thirty yards?" She pulled in a breath, her dark eyes begging him to find the strength she needed from him. "We can do this. I'll help you, all right?"

"McCall, I can't make it."

"Damn it. You have to make it." She shot forward, climbing onto her knees and turning toward him. Staring, still begging, with panic and determination sparking in her eyes. "We both do. So, help me out here."

Trask groaned, pain constricting his expression. "What're you going to do, carry me?" He wrapped one large, bloodstained hand around her arm. "Listen to me, okay? Get out while you can. Save yourself. If you try to help me, they'll think we're connected for sure. Right now, Velasquez doesn't know what to think. But if you help me, no one will be able to help you."

"I'm not leaving without you," Dee Dee returned, shooting an apprehensive glance toward the door. She turned slowly and fell back against the wall again. "Okay. You're right; I can't carry you. So, uh. So, you'll have to lean on me. Use me for support, you know? We can do this. We don't have far to go."

"I can't even make it across the room," he argued, swiping a blood-smeared palm across his forehead. "And you want me to make it thirty yards?" He shook his head, grunting under his breath. "You're gonna need to move fast once you get out the door, and I'll just slow you down. Without me, you have a chance to make it to the car before anyone notices you."

She pulled her knees up in front of her, her shoulder knocking against his broader one. "Please," she whispered, the tears she'd spent most of the afternoon fighting finally taking control. "Just try, that's all I'm asking. You have to do that much. We can't just sit here and wait for them to come back. Because when they do…" Velasquez's parting words replayed in her head, his intentions and insinuations leaving her cold. "They're going to kill you, and that'll leave me alone. So, we both have to get out of here. We have to get out now."

His tired stare fell on her, his dulled eyes filled with sympathy. "Save yourself."

"How about we go with my idea instead, huh? Let's save both of us."

"I can't even feel my feet."

"You don't have to feel them, you just have to use them."

"Jesus, McCall. Come on. I'm already dead; we both know that. But you still have a chance, so you need to take it."

"Do you have anyone waiting for you at home?" she asked, knowing it was an unfair tactic to bombard his emotions when he was already at such a resigned point. But she was willing to play unfairly if it would motivate him enough to move. "A wife? Kids?"

He hesitated, his eyes sliding closed as he mumbled, "Wife. What about you?"

"A husband, once," she admitted. "He was killed, line of duty. And I can tell you from experience, it isn't easy losing someone like that. You don't want your wife to have to go through that, do you?"

"We've only been married a couple of years. Feels like less, though. I let the damned DEA steal all our time."

"Then steal it back," Dee Dee urged. "Let's get out of here so we can both go home."

He shook his head. "Even if I get out, I'm not going far. Look. Velasquez knows who I am now. I walk out of here, I'm walking out with a bull's eye on my back."

"We'll get you protection."

"From Velasquez?" He chuckled, disagreeing. "You don't know who you're dealing with. He's not a two-bit drug dealer. He just inherited an empire."

Dee Dee slapped her palms on the hard floor, growling. "Damn it! You can go into Witness Protection! You'll be safe, and you'll be _alive_!"

"Just go!" he hissed, tears glistening in his eyes. "You failed the fucking mission, okay? You didn't get me out—deal with it!"

"I don't like to fail!" she shot back. Pushing off the wall, she climbed onto her knees and turned toward him. Sliding her hands under his arms, she began tugging against his large frame, groaning as she struggled to help him to his feet. Slowly and arduously, grunting his opposition, Trask straightened. He wrapped one large arm around her shoulders, hobbling and bent as they inched toward the door.

Coming to a stop in front of the barrier, Dee Dee took in a breath, reaching shakily for the oxidized knob. She pulled the door open slowly, her breath catching as the aged hinges began to squeak. Peeking outside, she took a look around, waiting as cautiously as impatiently, watching and listening. Other than the rustle of leaves as the breeze whipped through them and what sounded—faintly, at least—like the rumble of the ocean, it was quiet. Devoid of human life, seemingly deserted.

"Okay," Dee Dee whispered, more to herself than Trask. "This is good. It's good. Right? It has to be good." Her steps were light and hesitant as she led Trask outside. She hurried until his pained moans slowed her, and then waited through a few more steps before trying to rush him again. And by the time they reached the rusted-out Dodge, it felt like they'd traveled the length of a football field.

She yanked on the driver's side door, the hinges retaliating with earsplitting squeals. Hesitating through a quick prayer before pulling the barrier the rest of the way open, she helped Trask lower onto the corner of the front seat. She crumpled once he released his hold on her, landing on her knees in the hard dirt. "Are you okay?" she whispered, searching his pale face for any reassurance, no matter how small. "Trask? Don't quit on me, all right? You can't—"

"Jesus. You're pushy, McCall," he groaned, sliding further into the car.

They both took only a second to catch their breath, before Dee Dee dived onto the floorboard and began tugging at wires beneath the steering column. She ignored Trask's quiet moans, concentrating instead on stripping the wires as quickly as her trembling fingers could move. As she began the task of wrapping them into the potent clump needed to turn over the engine that she prayed still ran, she heard the familiar slide of a semiautomatic from behind her, followed by Trask's defeated groan.

"The fuck you doing, puta?"

In Surround Sound, laughter erupted outside the car. Dee Dee blinked back the tears that immediately filled her eyes, tears signaling both defeat and knowing, as the man behind her fisted the back of her shirt in his hand and yanked her out of the car. She came out fighting, throwing punches, kicking, screaming a desperate, "Try the car, Trask! Try to start it!"

"McCall…" Trask's dark stare led hers to the house across the drive and New Jersey charging toward them, a semiautomatic pistol in his hand and five men on his heels.

New Jersey came to a stop in front of the car, the other men fanning out on either side of him. He raised his gun, aiming at the front windshield of the old Dodge and Trask's pale face beyond it, as Dee Dee began to scream and beg for the life she'd been put in charge of saving. She pulled against the hand tangled in her shirt, kicking her feet into the dusty ground. With Trask's resigned stare focused on her, her plea became a ramble that was cut off by the spray of bullet. The dusty windshield shattered, glass filling the air and pelting the ground like solidified raindrops. Inside the car, shards mingled with blood, setting Trask's bullet-riddled body aglow.

As the final blast faded, leaving behind an eerie silence, New Jersey turned the gun on Dee Dee. Behind the barrel, she saw his heartless smile, watched as he pulled the slide. Whispering a panicked, "No!" she kicked the heel of her foot into the shin behind her, lunging forward as the man lost his hold on her. His angry shouts pushed her into the growth of trees that butted up to the tiny, concrete building, her unexpected escape fueling the men into action.

She ran in a zigzag pattern, dodging low-lying limbs that threatened to strike her and leaping over rocks and fallen branches. Her panic chased away her tears, and she willed herself to concentrate on moving rather than the thundering footsteps behind her. The men's steps reverberated throughout the trees, echoing off the massive trunks, rattling the ground and threatening to disorient her. But she remained silent and indomitable, too afraid to look behind her.

With a half-gasp, half-scream, she skidded to a stop, finding herself teetering on the edge of a cliff. In front of her was a fifty-foot drop that led to the white-capped ocean, and behind her were the footsteps. Sounding heavier than before, more numerous—Jesus, so final. Taking only a second to decide, she clutched for the hand of the lesser evil and lunged toward the cliff, prepared to take flight. But before she could grab freedom, the strong hand wrapped around the collar of her shirt and flung her backwards. She hit the ground hard, sputtering and coughing, the men surrounding her. A cloud of dust descended on her, and she fought to breathe it in, to steal what air she could from it.

Wheezing, her head dizzy, she choked out a barely audible, "No! Don't!" as another hand took hold of the front of her shirt and yanked her to her feet.

"That was a stupid move!" New Jersey growled, his hot breath hitting her face. "You're not careful, you're going to end up as dead as the DEA rat! Mr. Velasquez doesn't have a lot of patience, you'd be smart to remember that!" He slapped his hand against the center of her back, sending her stumbling forward.

"Keep your hands off me, you son of a bitch!" Dee Dee rasped, her desperate words becoming lost in the trees. Another slap against her back was the only response she was given, and she staggered forward as commanded.

The death march back to the house seemed miles longer than the flight away from it had, and as she broke through the trees with the barrage of men surrounding her and being greeted by the sickening sight of Jordan Trask's lifeless body slumped in the front seat of the abandoned car, she felt her heart stop.

The house was a tomb, restrictive and ominous and sealed up tight. And she knew once she walked through its doors, she would never escape again.

**xxx**

The squad room had emptied out, the hour closing in on midnight. A single lamp burned from the corner of McCall's desk, the bulb directed at and shining onto the top of Hunter's desk. He sat slumped, oblivious to the silence around him as he read through files that chronicled a life that, on paper, seemed to hold little significance. Especially of a malevolent type.

"Velasquez, Oscar…" Hunter mumbled to the top sheet of paper. There wasn't much there, nothing that, under different circumstances, would bring up any red flags. There were a list of priors, but most were petty crimes-shoplifting, possession, intent. But nothing as serious as the Feds had talked about.

"Find anything?"

Hunter glanced up, Charlie sidling up to his desk. "Not much," he answered. He reclined in the chair, lacing his fingers at the back of his head. "I don't get it, Charlie. Even with all Stanton's talk about power, why would someone like Oscar Velasquez risk getting involved with kidnapping a DEA agent and cop? His record's pretty clean. So, why take Dee Dee? I mean, Trask, there's a reason there. But it doesn't make sense to take Dee Dee, too."

"Maybe as some kind of bargaining chip?" Charlie asked, grasping at straws.

"For what? Who?" Hunter shook his head. "John Diego Velasquez didn't leave that warehouse. Junior has to know that he's dead." His gaze dropped to the folder again, his jaw clenching. The damned FBI had their noses filled with Oscar Velasquez's scent instead of Dee Dee's. If she didn't make it back alive, they would see it as a waste but not one of those sons of bitches would chalk it up to a loss. Instead, they would advertise it as a sacrifice, build up Dee Dee to be some sort of unsung hero, someone who didn't just to her job but embodied it. She would be billed as a martyr that traded her life in hopes of saving countless others from being stolen altogether.

It would be bullshit propaganda, every word of it.

But the Feds would stand behind it, just so no one outside of their self-professed elite sector would learn the truth: that in comparison to bringing down a lowlife like Oscar Velasquez, saving Dee Dee was a secondary concern.

At least that was what the fucking Federal Bureau of Investigation believed.

"So, there's nothing at all on Junior?" Charlie asked.

"Drug charges mainly," Hunter grunted. "But nothing that he ever had to spend more than a few months at a time locked up for." He glanced down at the file again, dropping his chin into his palm. "He's lived a pretty privileged life, looks like. Started going to school in the states around middle school age—boarding schools in Connecticut. Then went through four years at Brown."

"Wait," Charlie interjected, tapping the bottom of the paper with a stubby finger. "What's that—an assault charge?"

Hunter slid in closer to the desk. "That's exactly what it is. Filed by a Remy Bates. Looks like…almost five years ago." He glanced up, meeting Charlie's stare. "Bates ended up with a broken arm and collarbone, pointed the finger at Oscar. Charges ended up getting dropped, though."

"Junior busts her up and she still drops the charges?" Charlie growled, shaking his head. "When're they gonna learn? It happens once, it'll happen again."

"I don't see any other charges filed by Bates," Hunter said. "Looks like if Oscar did it again, he didn't do it to her."

"Or he had her too scared to file charges the next time," Charlie said.

Hunter glanced down at his watch, frowning. When they left, Stanton and Porter handed down a strict order for everyone to stay put, or at least to stay out of the FBI's way. _"This isn't your problem anymore,"_ Stanton had said, a sneer lurking beneath his pencil-thin lips. _"Trust me, Sergeant Hunter, your partner's in good hands now. Much better than she would be if the LAPD were in charge of this."_

"We're not going to get any more information out of Stanton," he grumbled. "He's gonna leave us sitting here, waiting. But no one's gonna talk to us."

"They're gonna make us wait," Charle agreed stiffly, through a nod. "But what other choice do we have? Order came down from the top, Hunt—"

"To hell with the Bureau," Hunter groused, pushing back in his chair. "I'm not going to sit around and wait for a handout from those jackasses. Dee Dee doesn't mean any more to the Feds than she does to Velasquez. So, how much time do you really think they're going to put into finding her?"

"No one here is disagreeing with you," Charlie responded. "If you have an idea, why don't you share it?"

Hunter nodded, climbing out of his chair. "Let's start with Remy Bates," he said, motioning toward the doorway with a tilt of his head. "My guess is she knows a lot more about Oscar Velasquez than the Feds do. And since the finger's getting pointed at him right now, maybe if we know more about him, we'll figure out where in the hell to find him."

**xxx**

She took a last, frantic glance around the grounds before New Jersey dragged her around the back corner of the house. They stopped at the foot of a concrete staircase, defined footprints in the dirt surrounding it indicating that the house's back entrance was used often. A face appeared in the rectangular-shaped window cut into the top of the backdoor, dark eyes looking her up and then down before the door was pulled open. New Jersey gave the staircase a nod and then her a shove, grunting as she tripped onto the first step, "Go on up."

_Run_, her mind frantically commanded, before her common sense brought her back to reality, mocking her by asking just how far she thought she would get the second time? She'd proven that running was a stupid idea at best, and if she tried it again, more than likely it would become a lethal one. So, she stumbled onto the second step, and then the third one. When she reached the top, she glanced up into the expressionless face in front of her. The man snagged her right elbow in one burly hand and pulled her the rest of the way inside, grunting his irritation as she staggered and then dropped exhaustedly to her knees. She hit the tile floor hard, unable to stop herself from crying out as New Jersey immediately jerked her back to her feet. Sweat prickled her skin and her lungs ached. Her head was spinning; everything seemed hazy, indistinct.

"Keep moving."

She made a quick glance around her surroundings. It was a closed-in back porch, a mudroom. Beneath her, the floor creaked and above her two, bare light bulbs burned. Various pairs of boots, all dusty, sat haphazardly against the furthest wall, jackets hanging on hooks above them. There was a wooden bench that looked closer to falling apart than being sturdy enough to support any real weight, and an assortment of canvas bags were messily stacked in one corner, all zipped closed but obviously packed full based on the way their sides bulged.

"Hurry up. Move."

Dee Dee widened and then squinted her eyes. With his free hand, New Jersey pushed her toward a doorway. Through it a staircase was visible, tall and winding, grandiose. Above it hung a chandelier, and the floor looked like marble.

The house wasn't just a house. It was a mansion.

_No_. No, it was a tomb—a lavish one.

Hers.

_She couldn't breathe_.

"I'm going…to…I, I—" She coughed and then gagged, turning her face away from the gawking man.

"Fuck! Not in here, damn it!"

New Jersey spun her away from the doorway and rushed her back across the mudroom. Flinging open the backdoor, he shoved her head and shoulders outside by a hold around the back of her neck, forcing her to bend forward over the dirty steps. Her stomach heaved and she coughed in retaliation, scrunching her eyes closed. A cold sweat soaked her, causing her to shiver as she fought her way through more dry heaves.

"Can I…a, a…drink…" she choked through a weak shake of her head. "Please?"

"You'll get something later," he growled unsympathetically. "Right now, you need to get yourself under control. Nobody's got time for this."

She sniffled, before sucking in a chest full of air. Pushing back against the iron grip around her neck, she straightened and passed New Jersey a timid glance, whispering a shaky, "Sorry," that was met by a glare.

"Keep causing trouble and sorry is exactly what you'll be," he hissed, yanking her back through the doorway. "Around here, it's not like you're a commodity, you know. Which means it'd be just as easy to bury you as keep you around. So, you might want to remember that before you go causing any more problems."

**xxx**

He knew there wasn't an exact type; abuse could sneak up on and get the better of anyone. But if Hunter were put on the spot and forced to make a guess, he wouldn't peg Remy Bates as the type anyone could ever get the better of. She looked hard around the edges, like life had experienced her far more than she'd experienced it. Caution colored her eyes a stormy gray and her stance was rigid and preparatory. She spent every second on high alert, he could instinctively tell, and Charlie's and his unexpected arrival had sent her completely into battle mode.

"I don't know what you want from me. I haven't seen Oscar in…I don't even know. At least five years."

"You mean since he busted up your arm and collarbone?" Hunter asked.

A smile flickered just beneath the thirty-something's painted lips, her eyes dipping nervously. "That was a mistake, an accident."

Hunter stared down the fidgeting woman. They'd chased her around Los Angeles from sunset until sunrise, finally catching up to her just moments before the sun set again. Knocking on three doors that turned out to be past residences of the corporate ladder-climbing, dye job blonde, making calls to four different phone numbers that ended up being disconnected, and visiting three previous employers finally landed them in Manhattan Beach. It was obvious Remy Bates was as skilled at covering her tracks as she was at coordinating her Donna Karan dress with her Christian Louboutin leather boots, and experience told Hunter that meant she would also be just as proficient at lying. At best, they would get half of the information out of her that they'd tracked her down to get, and out of that fifty percent, they would be lucky if even one-fourth of it was the truth.

"I'm sorry, but…" She glanced down at the diamond-studded watch on her left wrist, shrugging a shoulder. "I have a dinner engagement I really need to—"

"Looks like you're gonna be late," Charlie interrupted, the toll the long day had taken on him adding a noticeable inflection of irritation to his voice.

The woman blinked her overly made-up eyes, her stare making its way from Charlie back to Hunter. "Am I in some kind of trouble?"

"Not unless you decide to keep lying to us," Hunter returned coolly.

She shook her head. "Look. I already told you—"

Charlie took a step forward, closing the gap between Bates and himself. "It's been a long couple of days, Ms. Bates. Sergeant Hunter here and I are feeling the effects of too little sleep and too many nerves."

Bates took in a long breath, her shoulders slumping. "A long few days…" she whispered, knowing creeping into her voice. "Does this have something to do with that missing policewoman?"

"What makes you think that?" Hunter asked quickly. "No one said anything about her."

An uneasy smile trembled across Bates' lips, another, harder shake of her head following. "I heard about her on the news," she admitted. "I also heard that John Diego had been killed, and now the LAPD is at my door asking questions about Oscar." She shrugged, sighing. "This is the kind of thing the Velasquez's would be involved in."

"Where can we find Oscar?" Hunter asked. He stared into her eyes, seeing nervousness flicker in them. She was afraid, obviously. She put a lot of effort into hiding from her past and one particular demon that haunted it, and it was clear that she wasn't ready to be found yet. And fear, he knew, was the biggest instigator of lies. "I can assure you, Ms. Bates, Oscar Velasquez won't know you talked to us."

Bates laughed softly, biting into her bottom lip through a faint shake of her head. "Oh, he'll know. Oscar always knows."

"How'd you get hooked up with him?" Charlie asked.

She hesitated, rifling her fingers through the side of her hair. "I don't know. I guess it happened before I realized what he was," she answered simply. "Isn't that how most people get involved with the devil?" She attempted a smile, only a faint quiver passing over her lips. "Please. Believe me, I am sorry about this woman—the policewoman who's missing. And if she is with Oscar…" She took in a strong breath, her nostrils flaring. "If she's with him, it's already too late for you to do anything for her. If he doesn't want you to find her, whether or not I help you won't make a difference. You won't find her."

"Tell us what you know about Velasquez," Hunter urged, Bates' confession a drone in his ears that he put what little energy he had left into trying to ignore. Screw her pessimism; he didn't have to adopt it as his own belief. Maybe Oscar Velasquez had mastered the skill of intimidating the less educated, but he didn't scare Hunter. Everyone could be broken eventually, he'd watched it happen day in and day out through the entirety of his career. And as far as he could tell, Oscar Velasquez was just one more everyone, which made him a breakable someone.

Bates backed up to the closed door of her apartment. She hooked her arms over her chest, her manicured nails digging into the skin of her upper arms. "He's…Oscar is…" she began through gritted teeth. "He's narcissistic. He sees himself as entitled."

"We do think he has something to do with Sergeant McCall's disappearance," Hunter admitted. "So, if we're right, where would he take her?"

"Anywhere," Bates answered, matter of fact. "The Velasquez's own half this country, and even more of Colombia. They have a lot of influence, a lot of power. There're thousands of people who'd be willing to cover their tracks for them."

"Thousands, huh?" Charlie asked, his tone tilting toward accusatory. "Does that include you?"

Bates shook her head. "I told you, I haven't seen Oscar in years. Believe me, when I finally did get away from him, I didn't look back. I kept running."

"People only run when they're scared," Hunter said, an eyebrow cocked. "So, what were you afraid of?"

"The devil." Bates laughed, as if the answer should have been obvious enough not to need clarified. "I told you, that's what Oscar is."

"Yeah?" Charlie pressed, taking a step closer to the fidgeting blonde. "You have to know something to make you decide that. So, what do you know about him that you shouldn't?"

Bates took in a long breath, holding the air in her lungs through another, defeated shake of her head. "I was young and stupid when I hooked up with Oscar, okay?" she admitted. "He had a lot of money, spoiled me, and I liked the way he made me feel. He told me that he was in the shipping business with his father; they worked primarily out of Miami. But they wanted to expand, move to the West Coast. Like I said, I was young and stupid, and I bought his story—all of it."

"Bought it for how long?" Hunter asked.

"Long enough that I feel even stupider now," Bates sighed. "After a while, I started noticing things, things that didn't fit with Oscar's original story. I knew he was doing something illegal, but at first I thought he was just moving drugs. You know, bringing them into the states. And I…I don't know. I guess at the time, I was okay with that. I mean it was just coke, right? If Oscar and his father didn't bring it in, someone else would."

"And someone has to spend all that money," Charlie rebuffed. "So, why shouldn't it be you?"

"Maybe," Bates answered, shrugging stiltedly. "But when I started noticing other things, I, uh. I couldn't handle it, and I knew I couldn't live with it. That's when things got bad between Oscar and me."

"Things?" Charlie pressed leadingly, with an encouraging nod. "Like?"

Bates swallowed hard, stalling. "Women," she finally said, her stare dropping. "Or more specifically, girls—a lot of them, most of them foreign. It took a while before I realized what was going on. I was at one of the downtown warehouses with Oscar one day; he was waiting on a shipment to be delivered. I assumed it was drugs, you know, like usual. But then these two girls were brought in, both were young, neither spoke English." She gripped her arms tighter, the ends of her nails sinking into her pale skin. "I mean, I was _there_, in the room, and, uh…and, he…he…started hitting one of them, beating her. And then he…he ripped her clothes…stripped her. He said horrible things to her, threatened her." She shook her head, breathing deeply. "Then he raped her. Right in front of me, you know? Like it wasn't supposed to bother me, like I was supposed to be okay with it. I tried to stop him…at first. I hit him. I _kept_ hitting him." She shrugged faintly, her eyes narrowing. "The next thing I knew, I was in the hospital."

"You told the police Oscar was the one responsible for what happened to you," Hunter pressed. "Why didn't you tell them everything?"

"I told them more than I should have," Bates answered. "John Diego made a trip to the states just to get Oscar out of jail." She shrugged, her expression tensing. "A few weeks later, John Diego called me, asked if we could talk." She glanced up, the fire in her eyes having dulled. "He took me to a bad part of town, a…horrible…area. It was…filthy, rundown." Shaking her head; a heavy sigh deflated her once squared shoulders. "There were drug dealers, hookers. We parked on a corner and, um, one of the girls working it, she was…she was the girl Oscar raped in front of me."

"The Velasquez's put her to work and you didn't tell anybody?" Charlie barked, disgusted. "Thought you said you wanted to stop the bastards?"

"I wanted to help _her_," Bates argued. "But I didn't know…what…" She shook her head, with as much frustration as helplessness. "Look. I was in too deep, okay? And that girl on the corner, she already looked half-dead. John Diego told me that she would stay there, work there until he was done with her. And the other one I saw at the warehouse…" She smiled sadly, tearfully. "He said he'd already sold her. And then he told me that he knew people, men in other countries who were willing to pay good money for American women. Age didn't matter, that's what he said. These…perverts…just wanted Americans. Then he told me that was exactly what would happen to me if I didn't drop the charges against Oscar and keep my mouth shut. He said he'd make me disappear, and I knew he could do it."

_American women_. _Age didn't matter_. Hunter's heart lurched to a stop. Human trafficking, even though talked about by Stanton and Porter, hadn't really stuck in his mind. He knew the logistics about it—the type of merchandise marketed and typical ages preferred. The whole idea sickened him; it went against every moral fiber inside of him. But for God's sake, Dee Dee was in her thirties. Not old by his standards, but definitely too old by perverted trade standards.

"After that night, I didn't stick around long enough to find out anything more about John Diego and Oscar's business dealings," Bates continued. "Trust me, I learned more about them than I ever wanted to know. And that's how I know if that missing policewoman is with Oscar, she's in more trouble than you can get her out of." She shrugged, resigned. "I saw her picture on the news, and believe me, she's exactly the type of woman Oscar could make disappear if he wanted to."


	3. Chapter 3

**THREE**

John Diego Velasquez was dead.

Because of it, his son had killed Jordan Trask.

And she would be next.

Dee Dee rolled her shoulders, trying to loosen New Jersey's grip around the back of her neck. They marched up the staircase, her steps more stumbles, his heavy, deliberate. The house was too big to get her bearings with. There were doors around every corner, rows of windows with bars on them, and men.

She'd counted fifteen men so far, all sizes, ethnicities and ages. Some she heard speak in English, others in Spanish, a few she couldn't identify their language. But one thing they had in common was the way they leered at her as New Jersey paraded her past them. Some snickered, others scowled, a few blew mouthfuls of smoke from burning cigarettes or stubby cigars in her face.

"Where're we going?" Dee Dee only managed a whisper, her throat too dry to produce anything stronger.

"No one said you got to ask questions." New Jersey tightened his hold on her, shoving her through a left-hand turn as they reached the landing at the top of the staircase.

They passed in front of three more men, Dee Dee meeting each of their callous stares timidly. Including New Jersey and Oscar Velasquez, that brought her count to twenty.

Leaving her with impossible odds at best, hopeless without a doubt.

New Jersey yanked her to a stop in front of a set of double doors. She stumbled backwards, into him, her back becoming flush with his broad chest. Her best guess, he was at least five inches taller than her, and he had to have a solid sixty pounds on her. Adding his personal size with the fact that she was grossly outnumbered lowered her odds to totally screwed, and so she didn't argue or put up a fight when he barked at her not to move.

Digging a key out of his jacket pocket, he jammed it into the keyhole on the right-hand door. He barely had the door pushed open when he pushed her after it, sending her staggering over the threshold and into the bedroom. As Dee Dee recovered her footing, she took a quick survey of her surroundings. The room was large, bigger than her first apartment, she guessed. Decorated elegantly with mahogany furniture that was oversized and ornate, expensive-looking enough to be considered gaudy, with what looked to be a silk bedspread and curtains. Between the slight openings between the drapes on the two windows, she could see bars—black and thick, iron. Like she was an animal being locked away at the zoo.

The door at the opposite end of the room was pulled open, and everything else around her seemed to fade away. All she could hear were his footsteps; all she could see was his smile. He walked toward her, Dee Dee critiquing him as he closed in on her. He wore dark pants, a pressed shirt and leather shoes. He was dressed richly, impeccably, but she couldn't remember if they were the same clothes he'd been wearing before, in the building. Oddly, she couldn't seem to remember anything about him.

His smile was still in place as he stepped up to her, an eyebrow rising as he looked her up and then down. He was arrogant, she could see it in him, smell it on him. He oozed authority, and that scared the hell out of her. Because just like with Jordan Trask, it meant he held her fate in his hands.

His smile wilted and brows creased, disapproval darkening his eyes. "The hell happened? She's filthy."

"Tried to run," New Jersey explained, sounding more bored than matter of fact.

Velasquez's smile regained life slowly and he nodded, seeming impressed by Dee Dee's courage. "She's a stubborn one, yes?"

"You call her stubborn, I still call her a liability," New Jersey remarked. "It would've saved us a lot of headaches if I'd gotten rid of her when I off'd Trask."

"Possibly," Velasquez responded, seeming undecided on an opinion. "But then again, where would the fun be in that?"

"You know what I think is fun?" New Jersey grunted. "Staying out of prison. That's what I think is fun."

Velasquez chuckled and pointed a finger at Dee Dee, before nodding toward the other end of the room. "Go. Clean up. There's a bathroom."

Dee Dee fought down a breath, her stare shooting around Velasquez and targeting the door across the room. She hooked her hands together, twisting her fingers, tugging nervously. "Clean up?" she stammered, a lump lodging in her throat—maybe it was her heart, possibly a lung, or it could be her stomach. She wasn't sure which; only that it would take mere seconds for her to choke to death.

"Clean up," Velasquez repeated, his voice dragging. "I don't like dirty things in my house, and you're dirty."

Dee Dee grunted a laugh. "Yeah? Well, why don't I just leave then? Thanks for the offer, but, uh. Honestly? I prefer to clean up at home."

Without warning, New Jersey landed a slap to the back of her head, grumbling an admonishing, "Stop with the comedy act and go clean yourself up, hotshot."

"Hey!" Dee Dee groaned, shooting a glare over her shoulder. "You wanna keep your hands off me? I'm getting tired of being your punching bag."

"This one…" Velasquez chuckled through another shake of his finger, "is a livewire. Don't you agree, Tony?" His smile broadened and he trapped Dee Dee in a hard stare, reaching for her. Sliding his finger through a spirally curl, he added a whispered, "So strong-willed."

Dee Dee tracked the subtle movements of his hand with a sideways glance. "No, I'm…not…I'm just. I'm tired of being pushed around."

His stare lowered conspicuously, landing on her chest. "Can I be frank with you, Sergeant McCall? Or…" His gaze rose, swallowing her. "May I call you Dee Dee? After all, we've past the point of formalities with each other, don't you think?"

He ducked his head slightly, bringing them eye-to-eye. Behind her, Dee Dee heard New Jersey's heavy steps as he made his way to the door, and then the soft click of the jamb as he closed it behind him. She swallowed hard, with effort; Velasquez's smile reappearing. It was cold and calculating, making it clear that in their rule-less game a winner had already been declared. And it wasn't her.

Sighing, he reached for her, sliding just the tips of his fingers into the side of her tangled hair. She pulled back, whispering a shaky, "Don't," as he reached for her a second time. Freezing with his hand hovering between them, he cocked a heavy brow. Staring deep, before dropping his hand to his side.

"Why am I here?" she asked, her voice still weak. "What do you want?"

He responded first with an ambiguous tilt of his head. "It's very simple, really. The DEA…_you_…fucked up. You interfered where you shouldn't have, and as a result of your overzealousness, my father is dead." He sighed, shaking his head. "And because of that, Dee Dee, I'm afraid what you want most can't be returned to you."

"What I want?" Dee Dee asked through a slow shake of her head.

He nodded once, assuredly. "Your freedom."

She shivered markedly, electrical currents shooting up her spine. Burning and stinging, causing her to flinch. It wasn't like she was surprised by what he wanted to take; it was what she'd expected all along. But hearing him say it versus her only silently panicking over it somehow made it different, scarier. Too real.

"You were in that warehouse," he continued. "You had a purpose for being there." He shrugged. "And now I have a purpose, too."

"A purpose? I, I…don't…understand."

He feigned a pout. "You should. You are the one who fucked up."

"But I…I…" She shook her head faintly, unconvincingly. "I didn't know. At the warehouse—"

He smiled, wide and patronizing, quieting her. "Ah, I think you did know," he disagreed, his tone condescending. "You were eager to help, weren't you, anxious to add one more collar to your list of accomplishments? But you see, the thing is, this time you went in for the wrong kill." He lifted a brow. "Or. Just between you and me? We have to make it look like you did. After all, so much rests on appearances, doesn't it?"

Oh, Jesus. She was tired—tired of playing his game. If he expected her to break down and start begging for something that he'd never had any intention of giving back to her then he would end up disappointed. In the end, he might win whatever challenge he'd pitted them against each other in, but she would go out reciting the old adage, _it's not whether you win or lose, but how you play the game_. And she would play with dignity. Which was something the bastard obviously didn't have an ounce of coursing through his ice-cold veins.

She straightened, squaring her shoulders and holding his stare. "Go to hell."

He pulled his head and shoulders back slightly, his lips trembling for a brief second before his smile broadened. "You know, it really is a shame you're not younger," he said, his gaze making an uncensored roam down her body. "With your looks, that body and that attitude, I'd be able to unload you for a substantial price. But…" He sighed. "Unfortunately for you, it doesn't seem as if the FBI or LAPD has any more need for a used up whore than my associates do. So, I suppose that makes you rather expendable in everyone's opinion."

She shook her head. "What do you want? Why'd you bring me here? I told you, I'm just a cop. Not DEA—"

"I know who you are, and I know what you did. And what you did can't be overlooked. Unfortunately for you, my father was a man of strict standards, and something like that—what you did? It can't go unpunished."

In that instant, she saw it—blatantly. He changed. His expression hardened, his eyes darkened with intent, and she knew even before his transformation was complete that she'd officially run out of time. She had taken from him, and he felt justified taking in return.

Knowing it was a long shot, with the full weight of her impossible odds bearing down on her, she turned, taking off at a sprint. With his laughter chasing after her, she hit the closed doors only a second before his hand twisted in her hair, yanking her back and spinning her. Her back slammed into the wall, her head popped against it. Groaning, she brought her hands up between them, flattening them against his chest as he trapped her between his outstretched arms.

He smiled, stared. Through her, hard.

She tried to maintain eye contact, to at least seem that strong. But she couldn't, she wasn't. So, she stared at the floor, at his feet, the soft lighting in the room reflecting off the toes of his polished shoes. He startled her with a gentle touch, a tickle down her jaw line. Unconsciously, she flinched, tilting her head away from his hand. "Don't," she whispered, her voice nothing more than a shiver of a breath. Inside her chest, her heart was hammering. It was hard to breathe, to think, to stand there so damned submissively.

"Are you married?"

Timorously, she glanced up, her expression screaming out both her confusion and disgust toward his question.

He shrugged, looking blasé enough to turn her stomach. "It's a simple yes or no answer."

_Was she married?_ Just how deep did his psychopathic tendencies run? What was his plan, to make her detail—piece by piece—exactly what he thought he had the right to take from her? "Does it make a difference?" she asked.

A small smile cracked his lips, one she interpreted as patronizing. "No," he responded coolly. "It's merely a curiosity on my part."

"If nothing about me matters, why bring me here?" She forced herself to look into his eyes, to stare as deeply, as hard, as he was.

He pursed his lips, seeming to give her question consideration. "You seem intelligent," he finally said, backing his assessment with a firm nod. "You must be considering your vocation. You're educated, yes?"

Dee Dee's eyes widened a fraction, her surprise evident. Was he trying to compliment her? And if so, how in the hell did he expect her to react? Was she supposed to feel flattered, maybe appreciative? Or was he so full of himself that he actually believed his empty adulation would stop her from despising him?

"I asked you a question," he said, cocking a brow. "The civil way to react is to answer."

She could get sick; she wanted to. Right there, then, on the toes of his damned, polished shoes. And then she wanted to ask a question of her own—when in the hell had there been anything the least bit civil about their situation?

He took in a breath, loud and deep. "Mm. You are stubborn." He nodded stiffly, disapprovingly.

She needed to settle on a strategy. What was the old saying, you could catch more flies with honey than with vinegar? So, maybe civility should be her tactic. After all, as unbelievable and ironic as it was, it seemed important to the bastard. It was also the smart approach, she reminded herself, and exactly what she would tell any victim to do—humanize themselves. Make their abductor see them as someone instead of something.

"I went to college," she whispered. "I, uh. It was in…San Diego." Even though she finally answered his questions with more than a glare, he remained quiet. Openly studying her, never breaking eye contact. So, she retaliated in the only way her irrational mind could think of, by rambling. "I grew up in California…in, uh, in…Los Angeles. My parents grew up here, too. I, uh…I'm an only child. They don't, my parents…they don't…have…" She pulled in a shaky breath. "And I have friends, good friends. People who I care about, who care about me, and who I know are worried—"

He pressed his index finger against his lips, bringing an abrupt end to her babbling. Slowly, with his finger still pressing into the center of his mouth, he smiled. Reaching for her, he snagged a wispy clump of her hair between his fingers. She jerked her head, but he held tight, coiling the strands around the ends of his index and middle fingers. "I like intelligent women," he admitted, forcing her head to the side a fraction, his tugs consistent. "In my work, it isn't something I often encounter—an educated woman, much less an accomplished one. So, coming upon one is definitely a treat."

With another tug, he forced her away from the wall. They began to walk, him pulling her by his hold on her hair until they came to a stop at the side of the bed. After unwinding her hair from around his fingers, he smoothed it back into place with a gentle sweep of his hand. "You know," he said, "it's possible we just might enjoy each other's company. That would be nice, yes?"

Dee Dee's stomach dropped, her heart stopped. It wasn't happening, it wasn't real. Not the confusion, or fear, or knowing. Not Jordan Trask.

_It wasn't real_.

If she pretended hard enough, it didn't have to be. Did it?

He smiled, slowly, calculatedly. Dee Dee tensed.

_It wasn't real. It didn't have to be_.

Victims said it all the time, that they escaped to somewhere safe, somewhere deep in their minds during an assault. It was somewhere their attackers couldn't reach; somewhere they couldn't hurt them. And once they made it there, only what they chose to be real could be.

He slid his hand beneath her chin and caressed a path down the side of her neck. She flinched, her hands fisting at her sides. "Please, don't," she whispered, as he slid his fingertip across her collarbone, tracing over it once and then twice. "Please…"

He moved closer, against her. Dipping his head to the side, he nuzzled his nose into the crook of her neck. "The world might've seen my father as a monster," he whispered against her skin, "but still. Even monsters have to be avenged, especially when the world is watching."

She peeked up as he slid his lips up the side of her face. Lifting her hands, she pressed her palms against his chest. "Please…stop. Don't."

Taking hold of her hips, he guided her backwards again—one step, two, three, a final, stumbling fourth one. He shoved and she lost her balance, beginning to teeter. Continuing to push against him with her left hand, she peeled her right hand off his chest and pressed it under his chin. She wrenched his head back, forcing his lips off her neck.

He grunted his impatience, tangling a hand in the back of her hair and jerking her head back. Her neck was arched tautly, and she slammed her fists into the fronts of his shoulders. By his handhold on her hair, he forced her to bend backwards and then pulled her all the way down. She landed hard on the bed, kicking even before she hit, punching at him, at air, over and over. But he was undeterred by her flying fists, laying out on top of her.

He smothered her lips with his, her voice a muffled rattle inside of his mouth. Pulling his head and shoulders back, he glared down at her. "Stop!" he barked, his command a spurt of air that heated her face. "Shut up!" She hiccupped through a breath as he dragged a fingertip down her face, tracing the wet path of a tear. Dropping his elbows down on either side of her head, he continued to caress her face, clearing away strands of hair that had become stuck to her skin.

"No…no, no, no, no…no…" she chanted, as he buried his face in the crook of her neck. He nipped at her skin with his teeth and wetted it with his tongue, keeping his hands buried in the sides of her hair. She lunged upward, at him, her forehead connecting with his. Both screamed, and Dee Dee managed to roll out from under him and off the bed. Skidding up to the door, she began to pull. But his hands landed beside hers, pushing. And through her panic, Dee Dee noticed how large his hands were, how strong. She traced the paths of the puffed, blue veins that lined the backs and traveled onto his forearms, and saw the muscles clench and tighten as he curled his fingers into his palms to form fists. And then she heard the cries, high-pitched and desperate, mixed with pleading, but she didn't recognize the voice. It was unfamiliar, strange, and even though her throat had given it life, she didn't realize it belonged to her.

Velasquez tossed her effortlessly back onto the bed. Latching his hands around her hips, he pushed her down, her feet sliding across the silky blanket, leaving behind jagged-edged rips and tears. But the ear-piercing sound of splitting silk couldn't compete with the deafening noise created as he tore through the cottony material of her blouse and then moved steadily downward along a charted path, leaving behind a trail of ripped material and exposed flesh.

He fisted his hands in her hair again, holding onto her. Trapping her. Or so he thought.

But what he didn't understand was, she had already left.

Escaped to somewhere safe.

There, it wasn't real anymore. It didn't have to be.

**xxx**

Hunter stared down at the metal brace strapped around his leg, rubbing his hand up and then down the outside rod. The leg still hurt like hell, mostly at night, when he couldn't sleep. But what hurt even more than the physical wound was what it represented. The lives of eight good cops and agents that had been lost, and the two others that had simply become lost.

"Thought I told you to go home?"

Hunter answered Charlie's question first with a grimace, following it with a shake of his head. He knew Charlie was right—the only place he should be was holed up in bed resting his leg. But with Dee Dee and Trask still missing and the raid on the warehouse being heralded as the decade's biggest failure, the last thing he would be able to do was relax.

"Yeah, well," Charlie grumbled, conceding their three-day old argument. "As long as you're here…" He motioned toward his office door with a tilt of his head.

Hunter hobbled to his feet, shuffling through the squad room and following Charlie into his office. Limping over the threshold, he came to a stop, finding himself face-to-smug face with Gideon Stanton. It had been over seventy-two hours since the son of a bitch had shown his face at Parker Center, over seventy-two hours since he'd even bothered to call. But still, after seventy-two hours of leaving them to wait and wonder and struggle through one nightmare after another, he'd waltzed back in like he owned the place. Like he was doing them a favor.

"No need for introductions," Charlie muttered, walking around his desk as Stanton settled into the chair in front of it.

"What're you doing here, Stanton?" Hunter grumbled. "My partner's still out there. Means you should be, too. Doesn't it?"

Stanton raised his hands, quieting Hunter. "Look. Before you go completely crazy here, you need to hear what I have to say. I came with information, all right? And, uh…and unfortunately, it's not exactly the information I wanted to have to pass on."

Hunter backed up to the wall, slumping against it. When he came-to the night of the raid with his right leg on fire and his memory fuzzy, he was strapped onto a gurney in the back of a wailing ambulance. His questions about Dee Dee were either dodged or ignored completely during the time he spent in the emergency room being poked and stabbed and evaluated like a damned lab rat, and when he awoke the next morning having spent a hazy night under the influence of pain medication, Charlie was at his bedside but Dee Dee wasn't anywhere to be seen. And Hunter knew when he caught his first glimpse of the captain's colorless face that the fears he'd wrestled with since following Dee Dee into the DEA's damned joke of an assignment had reached fruition.

"What's that mean?" Charlie asked, his voice tight, strained. "What don't you want to tell us?"

Stanton sank back in the straight-back chair. He cleared his throat, drumming his fingers atop the wooden arms, stalling. "Well, uh." His voice was hesitant, absent of the complacency Hunter was used to hearing in it. "The thing is, we, uh. We found Jordan Trask. An anonymous call came into headquarters. The caller was male, spoke broken English, had a definite Spanish accent."

"One of Velasquez's men?" Hunter asked, still propped against the wall.

"Seems reasonable," Stanton confirmed, nodding. "The caller directed us to Barrington Landfill in San Bernardino County. We had men at the site all night, searching."

"And?" Hunter croaked, his teeth gritted and stomach in a full spin.

Stanton shrugged, his stare locked onto a pale Charlie. "We found Trask's body. He'd been beaten, shot." Straightening, he bowed his head, giving the other two men time to process what they'd been told—the finality of it, the fear that came along with it.

"And?" Charlie shuffled his weight from foot to foot, teetering precariously, like he could drop at any second. "McCall? What about her?"

Stanton shook his head, the lopsided gesture turning into a shrug. "The caller didn't mention her. But at the site, not too far from Trask's body, an LAPD windbreaker and bulletproof vest were also found. The search team is still out there, cadaver dogs, too. If she is there—"

"Did you trace the call?" Hunter asked gruffly, pushing off the wall and limping to the center of the room. _No_. Damn it—no. He wasn't willing to accept it. Not _that_. That Dee Dee had been discarded like that, left like that. Buried under trash, left alone, lost. And if he wasn't going to accept it, that meant Stanton had to give him another explanation. One that, God help him, he might be able to find some way to live with.

"Of course we traced it," Stanton responded curtly. "We traced it right to a phone booth in West Hollywood. Even you can figure out that doesn't do us a hell of a lot of good."

"Then we need to stake out airstrips," Hunter shot back. "We know John Diego Velasquez came in on a private plane, so it makes sense that his son will go out the same way."

"We are checking airstrips," Stanton returned. "Contrary to what you believe, Hunter, we're not morons. But there's only so much manpower I can put on this thing."

"Only so much— You son of a bitch!" Hunter swiped a hand through the top of his hair, grunting under his breath. "You know, Stanton, you didn't have a problem asking for help when it was John Diego Velasquez you were trying to get your hands on! So, ask again—recruit the damned Boy Scouts if you have to! We need to find McCall!"

"We're doing what we can!" Stanton hissed, jumping to his feet. He hurried around the chair, barreling up to Hunter with his chest puffed. "But whether or not you want to hear it, the fact is, we don't know if she's even still alive. From everything we've learned, Oscar Velasquez is just as ruthless as his father ever was, and from the looks of Trask's body—or what's left of it—no one's lied to us about that." He took a step back, adding distance between Hunter's clenched fists and himself. "Which means _Oscar_ is who we need to find."

"To hell with Oscar Velasquez!" Hunter argued, shooting a pleading glance at a sullen Charlie. "You sent her into that warehouse, Stanton! Don't you think you owe it to her to get her out now?" He turned away from the stone-faced agent, facing Charlie. "Every cop in this precinct is willing to help out here! So, let us do it! We'll tear this city apart—"

"Who the fuck do you think you are?" Stanton hissed. "Fucking Dirty Harry? You think you can accomplish what the DEA—the entire FBI—can't?" He broke into laughter, shaking his head. "What you are is an idiot. If McCall is still alive, Velasquez already has her so far underground we'll never be able to pick up her scent. We killed his father. You get that? Remember it? So, do you really think Velasquez gives a shit about what happens to any of us? You think he cares at all about your partner?"

No, damn it—_no, no, no_. Hunter took another swipe at his hair, clamping his hand around the back of his neck. He squeezed, his muscles brittle, feeling like they could snap in half. Fuck Oscar Velasquez. Who didn't care about McCall was the damned FBI. Out of sight, not their responsibility was the screwed up philosophy they were working under. "You're a piece of work, Stanton," he spit, a finger aimed at the agent. "So, what're you saying? That's it? The job's gotten too tough for you, so you're just gonna give up?"

Stanton chuckled lowly, absent of humor. "You know what, hotshot? Do us both a favor and don't put words in my mouth. When I give up it'll be because I know for a fact that McCall is dead, and to be real honest with you, right now, that's the direction I'm starting to think. But if you can come up with a reason why Velasquez would keep her alive, please, share it with me. Because so far, I haven't been able to think of a single one."

Hunter stumbled forward a step, his finger still trained on Stanton. "She _is_ alive. I know she is. And if you would've led this mission like you were supposed to—" He stopped, groaning as he spun around and staggered toward the door. Stanton might have managed to knock the wind out of him, but he couldn't touch his hope. That was his to hold onto, to believe in. Dee Dee was alive. He could sense it, feel it. And it didn't matter if the damned FBI stopped looking for her, he never would.

He would get her back. It would be over before she knew it, just like he'd promised her.

**xxx**

She wanted his smell off of her.

He stood in front of her, tucking his shirt into his tailored pants, staring down at her with eyes that were empty of emotion. She was propped up shakily on the edge of the bed, her legs hanging over the side and the silk sheet cinched around her. She didn't know how much time she'd spent there, trapped. But each second had been lived through fear and pain, more pain…more fear. She'd begged him, fought him, and when it had become impossible to accept anything other than defeat, she'd started praying.

That her willingness to surrender would afford her an opportunity—to escape, be found, kill him, or be killed.

How it stopped she didn't care, she only cared that it did.

Dee Dee gripped the sheet tighter, trembling. Scrunching her eyes closed, she fought down a bitter swallow. Bile threatened to come up, so she swallowed again, harder. He'd warned her what would happen if she got sick. Like she was a child, like she was being unreasonable.

_"If you get sick, trust me, I'll make sure you regret it. You're a decorated police officer, for God's sake. Act like it."_

What did God have to do with any of it she'd wanted to ask him? But she hadn't, because he'd told her to stay quiet and she hadn't had the strength left to take another punch. But everything about their situation reeked of immorality and depravity, which didn't leave any place in the mix for God. There was no room for Him in the bastard's cold soul, and she doubted there ever had been.

Glancing down at the portion of the sheet wrinkled in her lap, she tightened her hold on the two flaps crisscrossing her chest. Beneath the silky fabric, her legs shook and body ached from the inside out. Hesitantly, she touched the corner of her blackened, left eye, wincing. Blood was dried across her bottom lip, and her left cheekbone felt swollen. Even without looking, she could tell that her legs were bruised, her thighs from front to back, her shins from when she managed to land a kick. Three fingernails were broken down to the quick; two others were chipped. Her eyes burned from crying, her throat was raw from begging, and even though her heart was still thundering inside of her chest, her mind had shut down and stopped processing thoughts.

She sniffled, feeling the sting of fresh tears. Damn it. She didn't want to cry anymore. It only amused the bastard, anyway. He mocked her, laughed at her, and she hated the sound of his laughter. She hated him.

"You look a mess." As Dee Dee glanced up, her timid stare latching onto Oscar's dark one, he motioned across the room, targeting the half-open bathroom door. "Clean yourself." She didn't move, she couldn't seem to, and he cocked a heavy brow in response to her perceived defiance. "If it's too difficult for you to follow a simple instruction, then maybe I should help you? Is that what you prefer?"

Dee Dee dropped her gaze and slid gingerly off the bed. Keeping the sides of the sheet knotted in her hands, hugging the fabric around her, she stared down at the tops of his polished shoes. He was in front of her, blocking her, an insurmountable obstacle. He wanted to intimidate her, for her to be afraid of him, and she wished that she wasn't. But how else was she supposed to feel? She couldn't beat him; he'd proven that to both of them, and the understanding of just how helpless she was comprised the freshest portion of her fear.

She forced herself to take a first step, and then a second one. As she closed the gap between them, his smell became stronger, a pungent mixture of spice and coffee. It filled her nose, causing her stomach to make a fast trek up her throat. She cupped a hand over her mouth, picking up her pace and sidestepping to the left of the polished shoes. All she could focus on was putting distance between them. No—_no_, screw distance. What she wanted was the closed bathroom door between them. It wouldn't be a permanent escape, but at least it would give her a few minutes to try and organize her thoughts, to start thinking again versus continuing to drown in compliance.

Purposely marking out a wider than necessary path, she stepped further away from him. But she only barely made it around him when she was stopped. He slid an arm around her neck, the crook of his elbow pressing against her throat, and with a gentle yank, pulled her back against him. Their bodies became flush, her back against his front side, and she slammed her eyes shut.

Dragging his nose through her hair, he pulled in a loud breath. Against the side of her head she felt his lips curl upward and the heat of his breath as he taunted, "You are a handsome woman. It is a shame, isn't it, that my only choice is to get rid of you?" He pulled another whiff out of her tangled hair, and then another. Tears dropped onto Dee Dee's checks and she tilted her head away as he traced the length of her bottom lip with his fingertip. The touch was soft, lingering for a second over the cut that one of his strikes had left behind, and as he reached the corner of her mouth, he closed his hand around her chin.

"Please," she breathed out shakily, as he tickled a soft path back up her jaw. "Don't—"

The creak of the doorknob stopped both of them, the door swinging open.

"Oscar. We need to talk."

The demand accompanied the bedroom door closing. Dee Dee sneaked a peek—although what was the point? Just to see another hard smile, or leering pair of eyes, or to be reminded one more time that a door opening didn't represent any type of hidden opportunity? Whether it was open or closed, she was still trapped. Not capable of walking out of her own accord with either her freedom or dignity.

"Now, Oscar."

Oscar pulled his arm from around her neck, moving his hand to the small of her back and giving a tiny shove. "Go," he grunted, before giving her a second push. "Do as I said, clean up."

Dee Dee took in a shaky breath, blinking back her tears. She set off as quickly as unsteadily for the bathroom, the sheet strangled in her hands. As soon as she made it inside the tiny room, she pushed the door closed and twisted the lock, falling against the barrier with the side of her face pressed against the wood.

There were two more men—_two_. One was New Jersey, still wearing his damned ball cap and sunglasses. The other she was sure she hadn't seen before. He was as tall as Oscar, built just as bulky, as muscular. Like Oscar, his clothes were pressed and looked tailor-fit. He was Hispanic, she was sure of it. His skin was tanned and hair dark—_like_ _Oscar. _There was a similarity between them; she thought she'd noticed _something_. Their chiseled features held a faint resemblance. It was in the strength of their chins, the way their jaws were squared.

"It's been done?" she heard Oscar ask, his tone matter of fact. Unemotional.

"Of course," New Jersey answered, sounding tired, worn out. "I saw to it myself."

"He'll be found?" Oscar pressed.

New Jersey chuckled, void of humor. "Fuck's sake. If I were an amateur, you wouldn't have hired me, would you? He's already been found."

Dee Dee's eyes widened a fraction, every muscle tensing as she strained to hear their conversation through the thick wood. _He'd been found? _Had Jordan Trask's body already been found? Jesus. He'd been found, and she wasn't even sure how long he'd been dead.

"It's time to get things wrapped up, Oscar," New Jersey continued. "You've had your playtime, but come on. She's a cop—_a cop_. Both the LAPD and Feds are all over this. Especially now that that son of a bitch Trask has been dug up."

Oscar grunted his indifference. "And the LAPD and FBI, they're supposed to intimidate me?"

"If you're smart, yeah," New Jersey answered. "Look. Your name is being thrown around, okay? And even though the LAPD has been told to step down, they don't seem too interested in doing it."

"They know my name?" Oscar asked. "Good. They should."

"Good? Think about it, Oscar, you have one of them. And trust me, they're all about the Brother in Blue bullshit. Her partner? He's crazy, okay, and he doesn't take orders too well." New Jersey grunted a laugh. "So, do yourself a favor, huh, and listen to me? She's already been here too long. You need to get rid of her, and you need to do it now."

Dee Dee stiffened, tightening her hold on the sheet. It wasn't like New Jersey's idea was a surprise. And in the big picture, was death really the worst way for her nightmare to end? She'd actually spent the better part of her time in the bedroom begging for it—for the pain to stop, the torture, the humiliation, the fear, the damned wondering. She wanted it all to stop so that she could grab hold of just some semblance of herself again. And if she just let go, maybe she would actually be able to find that much of herself. Wherever she moved onto next, maybe some portion of her spirit would be waiting for her there.

"What was this even about, Oscar? This time with her?"

It was the other man asking, not New Jersey. His tone was harsh, possessing an edge, and he had an accent—Hispanic. She heard it clearly, clearer than with Oscar.

"Don't start with me, Elian," Oscar snapped. "You don't have the right to question me."

"I don't have the right?" the one called Elian asked, sounding agitated. "I have every right, as much right as you. I understand your reason for bringing her here, but we agreed she would be killed along with the DEA agent. And now, all these days later, she's still alive, still with you? Keeping her so just you could fulfill some animalistic urge has jeopardized all of us."

"Do you see any police in my home?" Oscar hissed. "No one's been jeopardized, because no one outside of this compound knows anything. If they did, they would've shown up by now to take back their puta." He chuckled coldly. "You saw her, Elian. Even you have to admit she does have a certain appeal. And as my father taught me, when an opportunity arises only a fool doesn't take advantage of it."

"Fine, okay. You took advantage of it," New Jersey said. "Now finish it. She's our last loose end in all of this, and we need her gone so we can get you out of California. I've called ahead; there's a plane ready to take you to Colombia, and the paperwork has already been altered to make it look like you've been there through this whole mess."

"Fine, fine," Oscar grumbled, preoccupied. "Have the details for her disposal been worked out?"

"They've been worked out," New Jersey answered, sounding assured. "Trust me. She'll be found just as easily as the DEA rat was. Only with her, it'll be a little tougher to make an identification."

A chill swept through Dee Dee, a shiver overtaking her. Knowing she was going to die was one thing, but hearing the details discussed so indifferently was another. _Jesus_. Why couldn't they just get it over with, then dot their I's and cross their T's after she officially became a memory? She didn't want to know where they planned to leave her, or how easy it would be for anyone to find her once they left her there. Screw the particulars, why would they matter to her, anyway? She just wanted it to be over with, some way, any way.

Any way other than the way the bastard Oscar had already forced on her.

"Good," Oscar responded simply. "Elian, handle it."

"Me?" Elian returned quickly. "Why should I clean up your mess? I'm your equal in this business, Oscar, not one of your employees."

Oscar chuckled coolly. "My equal? In case you've forgotten, thanks to the DEA, I've just been promoted to El Capitan. I'm the one my father taught his business to, the one he trusted to handle his affairs in his absence. But what are you, hmm? His name isn't even on your birth certificate." He hesitated, paused. "We all have a role in this business, Elian, and if you can continue to follow the rules that have been put into place for you—to keep your mouth shut and remember just how insignificant your position in my family is—I just might continue to keep you on the payroll instead of dumping your worthless body in a hole along with the LAPD's whore."

Dee Dee exhaled shakily, squeezing her eyes closed. Just what she needed—to spend her last minutes breathing stuck in the middle of a family feud. In an irrational sort of way, she hoped the one called Elian did shut up like the bastard Oscar wanted. The thought of spending any time at all in a crudely dug hole in the middle of some landfill was unappealing enough, but to get stuck in it with one of the bastards made the bile begin a slow trek up her throat again.

"My father brought me into his business," Elian hissed, "don't forget that. _He_ searched for me, I never searched for him."

"It's what your whore of a mother begged him to do," Oscar rebuffed. "What else could he do but take pity on you?"

"He owed my mother and me," Elian returned.

"He didn't owe you anything!" Oscar seethed. "You were a mistake, Elian—a mistake that your mother was too weak to get rid of. That's how _my_ father thought of you. He never talked about you, never even mentioned you. In his heart, you were never his son. He only ever had one son." He laughed harshly, coldly. "Which of us did he give his name to, hmm? There's only one Velasquez in this room, and it isn't you, little brother."

"I don't need Father's name in order to make my mark on this world," Elian hissed. "Unlike you."

Oscar laughed again, callously. "Bastards leave dirty, little smudges, Elian. They never make lasting marks." Footsteps thudded, heavy and rushed. "Now. It seems there's a final matter that needs to be taken care of. So, why don't you do that? Get rid of the puta and then clean up after yourself while I handle a few other pressing matters that need to be finalized before I leave the country."

"That's what you expect from me?" Elian groused. "It's what you expect me to be happy doing?"

"I think it's the most you should expect," Oscar returned. "I also think it's very generous of me to give you that much." He sighed, the breath weighted. "What? Do you actually believe Father would want you to have anything more? The truth is, to him, you were just another one of his employees, Elian. That's how he saw you. And most importantly, it's the most he thought you were capable of being."

"Are you sure about that?" Elian asked, sounding smug. Self-righteous. "Possibly it's you who's reached his full capabilities? Take a look at this latest folly, hmm? Wasn't it you who talked Father into making this trip to Los Angeles? You told him it was what he needed to do, that he _had_ to do it. Otherwise, his authority would be questioned."

"And that was the truth. He needed to reassert his power. You know these stupid Americans, how easily they forget who they should be afraid of."

"Apparently, they don't forget as easily as you wanted Father to believe," Elian rebuked. "This trip was a death sentence for him. You knew it would be, didn't you?"

"I knew…" Oscar laughed abruptly, mockingly. "There's always so much drama with you, Elian—_too_ much drama for my taste." He grumbled disagreeably, with annoyance. "The only reasons I had for making this trip were the ones I explained to Father."

"You lied to him," Elian accused. "You played him for a fool. But what you forgot to consider was, he was anything but a fool. He had his doubts, Oscar. Doubts about you—"

"I've warned you!" Oscar snapped. "Don't pretend to know _my_ father! He raised me to take over this business for him! It was always his plan—to have _me_ in charge! And I will not be questioned by his bastard—"

The explosion didn't register in Dee Dee's mind until its echo had all but faded.

The door shook on its hinges, the smooth wood tapping the side of her face. Jumping backwards, her widened stare targeted the center of the barrier, her mouth falling open and breath abandoning her. On the other side of the door she could hear movement—commotion. Hard footsteps, rushed. She tried to envision where the men were in the room; she tried to listen for voices. Had someone been shot? Had anyone been hit? There'd been only one gunshot, hadn't there? She'd just heard one. So, if someone had gone down, it could only be one of them—one out of three.

Jesus. She really hated bad odds.

"What the fuck did you do, Elian?"

_New Jersey. Elian_. Dee Dee scrunched the top hem of the sheet beneath her chin, her stare falling to the doorknob.

"I may not bear my father's name but make no mistake about it, I am his son." There was a smile detectable in Elian's eerily calm voice, the resonance of triumph. "In my father's world, no one was above suspicion. And that included Oscar."

"What in the hell are you talking about?" New Jersey barked. "Damn it, Elian! Do you realize what you just did—"

"Fulfilled my father's final wish," Elian interrupted confidently. "That's what I did. Father had heard rumors about Oscar, that he was losing his patience and was considering taking matters into his own hands to gain control of the business. Father had also been unhappy with his sloppiness for quite a while. Oscar never had the attention span for details, or a talent for covering his tracks. And during my last visit to Colombia, Father and I discussed these issues. He had concerns that he made known to me, and I gave my word that I wouldn't allow Oscar to ruin the Velasquez name. All I've done is fulfill my promise, like any loyal son would do."

"Your father…" New Jersey grunted. "Are you telling me that John Diego ordered a hit on his own son—on Oscar?"

"My brother forgot his place," Elian replied. "He began to believe that he was more important than the family."

"Jesus…" New Jersey sighed. "How long has this been in the works?"

A pause preceded Elian's answer, a moment of calculation. "Father's been unhappy since the mess with that woman—the Bates woman." He pulled in a strong, audible breath. "But it became worse a few months ago. The problem was, Oscar was far too confident for the small amount of intelligence he possessed. He talked to the wrong people about the wrong things. He talked about Father, about taking his power, his life. And when he set up this trip to Los Angeles, Father knew he had to protect the business, even if he couldn't protect himself."

"Yeah? Well, taking out Oscar was a pretty stupid move, if you ask me," New Jersey grumbled. "You know what John Diego wanted, great, but what about what the fucking cops want? How do you think everything—_she_—got pinned on Oscar in the first place? The LAPD didn't even know he existed until I let his name drop, and now they want him. They're looking for _him, _Elian. And trust me, no one's going to stop looking until they find him."

"So, they'll find him," Elian responded casually. "What difference does it make if he's dead instead of alive when they do?"

"It makes one hell of a difference," New Jersey shot back. "Because even after they find him, they're still going to want to find _her_. And without Oscar around to answer questions, they'll start looking for someone else to answer them."

Dee Dee settled her full weight against the vanity behind her as, on the other side of the door, the men continued to argue. The one called Elian had shot the bastard Oscar, and New Jersey wanted her dead—and the sooner the better. In his opinion, she'd already used up the borrowed time Oscar had given her.

"Christ. This shit's giving me a headache," New Jersey seethed, impatience marking his voice. "It's gone on too long, Elian. You need to do her. Get this finished already so we can get you out of here. No one knows about you, you understand that? So, get rid of the woman, and then we'll get you out of the state. The sooner we can put some distance between this whole mess and you, the better it'll be for everyone."

"Get rid of her, hmm," Elian grumbled, disagreeing. There was another stretch of silence, prolonged and tense, before he continued. "I've been thinking about it, about the woman. And I've made a decision. I have a different plan for her."

"Different plan?" New Jersey hissed. "What the hell does that mean?"

"Like I told Oscar, I am my father's son, and my father didn't like waste. This woman, while I agree with Oscar's reason for taking her out of the warehouse, I don't necessarily agree with his belief that the only way she could make restitution for Father's death was by dying herself." He paused. "No. Death seems so wasteful, don't you agree? Instead, I'll take her with me."

Dee Dee's choked on a breath. He said it so casually, talked about her so damned indifferently. Like his plan shouldn't come as a surprise to anyone, least of all her.

_I'll take her with me._

Take her? Where? _No. _Damn it, _no_. She was trying to come to terms with her death, not the son of a bitch's version of what he wanted to become of her life. In her mind, her heart, she'd already said her goodbyes and made her peace. _She was ready_. She would never walk out of the damned house, and for the most part, she had accepted it. But only that end to the nightmare. No other scenario. God help her, no other one.

New Jersey met the idea with a heavy exhale. "Take her with you? That'll be stupid idea number two. Think about it, Elian—she's a cop. If her body isn't found, that'll mean someone's going to keep looking for her."

"I'm not worried about the police—or the FBI, for that matter. Once I get her to Miami…" Elian sighed, seemingly placated. "No one will find her."

"You're sure about that?"

"I'm not my brother," Elian responded, a sharpness to his tone. "I'm like my father; I _am_ my father's son, and I don't approve of waste. There's no reason to end her life. I'm sure I can find a use for her."

"She's already served her purpose," New Jersey countered. "And I've made sure Oscar's name is the only one linked to her. Right now, no one knows you're involved in any of this. Everyone who's anyone doesn't even know that you exist. So, let's keep it that way. Keep yourself under the radar and your name clean, that way the Feds won't start sniffing around your doorstep next."

"_My_ name is clean," Elian argued. "As my dear brother pointed out, our father made sure of it."

"Exactly. John Diego never insisted that you take his name for a reason, because he didn't want you to have to deal with the kind of crap being associated with the Velasquez name would bring into your life or the risks it would bring with it. So, honor his wish. Keep your own name as clean as you can."

"What are you suggesting, that I break ties with my father's business? He put his trust in me, his faith. I've waited forty years for just this moment, I'm not going to turn my back on it now that it's finally here."

New Jersey sighed loudly, with obvious frustration. "Listen to me. I know how all of this is going to go down, okay? The Feds are going to keep looking for Oscar, and when they can't find him, they'll start digging deeper. Eventually, they'll find you, and when they do, they'll start digging around in your business. This woman, she's a cop, Elian—a fucking LAPD sergeant. No one's going to just walk away from this without getting some kind of answers. So, please, get yourself as far away from here as possible. We both know that's what your father would've wanted most."

Elian grunted disagreeably. "My father's business—his authority—meant everything to him," he said. "It was his entire life—his spouse, his favored child—and as his only surviving son, I have a duty to keep it alive. It would be unforgivable if I let it die. So, rest assured, I do intend to honor his wishes, both to run his empire for him and keep my name clean in the process."

"And you really think you're going to be able to do that if you keep the woman around? Fuck's sake, Elian. Did you get a good look at her? She's already outlived her usefulness. There's no way you'll be able to get rid of her. She's past her prime. Besides, who knows if Oscar left any permanent scars under all those bruises? If she's damaged, you won't even be able to get rid of her for less than market value."

_Less than market value_… What kind of nightmare had she gotten lost in? She just wanted to wake up, damn it—to a normal morning that would start off a normal day. God forgive her selfishness, but she wanted the disgust she felt to belong to someone else, to be _for_ someone else. She wanted Hunter to be beside her, within touching distance. They would trade jokes, bounce ideas off each other, one of them might snap at the other without a good reason and then the other one would understand that no reason was needed and let it go, then they would argue over whose turn it was to buy lunch. She needed Hunter to tell her that it _was_ just a nightmare, all of it, every humiliating second of it.

And if it couldn't be make-believe, then let it be the end.

The doorknob rattling pulled her out of her thoughts. The brass handle was tugged and then pushed, twisted to the left and then right. The door shook, the lock held, and on the other side of the wood Dee Dee heard an impatient grumble.

Two hard knocks reverberated, followed by a commanding, "Unlock the door."

She shook her head. Remaining frozen, wide-eyed, barely breathing, with her heart clawing its way out of her chest.

"_Now!_ Unlock the door!"

She jumped, startled, her hold on the sheet tightening. There was a window to her left; the glass was opaque, frosted. It didn't look like there were bars on the outside of it, but considering the opening couldn't be any larger than a foot wide, what difference would bars make? Spinning around, she bypassed her mottled reflection in the vanity mirror, her gaze settling instead on the medicine cabinet built into the right side of the glass. She ripped open the door, scanning the contents inside. Three toothbrushes, a tube of toothpaste, a can of shaving cream, a razor—

_Razor_.

She grabbed for the shaver as the door slammed open. The barrier pummeled into the wall behind it, shaking the entire room. A blow was landed between Dee Dee's shoulder blades, sending her to the floor, the razor dropping with her. She screamed and the razor clanked, Elian's hard-soled shoe swooping between them and kicking the razor away. A white-hot burn was ignited across her scalp and she retaliated with a scream, clamping a hand around Elian's wrist as he tugged on her tangled hair. He jerked her head back, arching her neck and angling her face upwards to stare into his.

"Are you trying to prove me wrong?" he hissed, his contempt wetting her face. "Is that it? _Have_ you outlived your usefulness?"

"Stop!" she cried through another hard yank on her hair. "Let me go! He's right! They'll keep looking for me! They won't—"

"They'll keep looking for you? And that's supposed to worry me?" Elian grinned, small yet contemptuously. "Who is it exactly that you think I should feel threatened by, hmm? The LAPD or FBI?" he asked, before answering his own question with a throaty laugh. Releasing his hold on her hair, he motioned behind him into the bedroom, to her clothes scattered across the floor. "Get dressed."

Dee Dee stared down the discarded pieces of clothing, her heart pounding as each jagged rip and tear screamed out how desperate her situation was. She was trapped, lost. A consolation prize that the son of a bitch felt he was somehow owed because he'd suffered through a crappy childhood and been bullied by an arrogant, older brother.

"Go!" Elian barked, snapping his fingers impatiently. "Get dressed!"

She recoiled, cowering at his feet. "I, I…can't. My clothes…they're…he..." She sniffled through a weak shake of her head. "He…tore…them."

"Mm." He nodded. "I'll have something brought in for you. Something suitable for traveling."

Dee Dee sniffed back her tears, her stare leaving the son of a bitch's complacent face and searching the bedroom. The other one—New Jersey—was gone, and on the bed, lying facedown with the wall behind him marked with blood, was Oscar. She swallowed hard, before managing to whisper, "They'll find me. The police, the FBI… Eventually, someone will link you to me."

"Possibly," Elian agreed. "But I'm not worried. You see, what Tony said was true. To your police, your FBI, I don't even exist."

Closing her eyes, Dee Dee fought down his truth with another swallow. She'd promised herself that she wouldn't beg, at least not for her life. But what remained of her dignity was a different story. If he intended to let her live, it didn't mean he had the right to set the terms for how she did it. A damned ghost or not, he didn't have the right to treat her with the same insignificance that his bastard of a brother had. "Please," she whispered. "Let me leave. I won't tell anyone, all right? You can go wherever you want. I won't tell anyone that I ever saw you or that you were here. I won't tell them anything."

Elian laughed loudly, with incredulity. "A woman—a _police_woman—promising to keep her mouth shut?" he reproached. "Just how stupid do you think I am?" Bending forward and cupping her chin in his hand, he raised her face toward his. "The only place you're going is Miami." He nodded slowly, and in response to her frightened silence. "Don't fight me, just do what you're told. If you can, the future will prove to be much easier for you. Trust me, unless provoked, I'm not nearly the monster my brother was."

Dee Dee shook her head, pulling out of his hold. "You can't do this!" she hissed. "I didn't do anything—"

"What you did or did not do no longer matters," he broke in, calm in spite of Dee Dee's hysteria. "All that matters is that you _are_ here, and now it's up to me as to what happens to you." He took in a breath, redirecting his attention toward the bedroom again. "Put yourself together. I'll have some clothes brought in for you."

"No!" Dee Dee said quickly, her panic reaching full scale. "No, you can't do this! You can't—"

"Quiet!" Elian stared down at her, grumbling approvingly as she fell still, drooping her shoulders forward. "This is your only warning to keep your mouth shut. If you force me to repeat myself, you'll regret it." He bent further, looming over her, his hot breaths washing down on the top of her head. "What makes you think I'd be interested in hearing anything you have to say, anyway? A woman is good for one thing only, and that certainly isn't conversation."

She shook her head, ignoring his warning. She wanted to die; she was ready to. It had been promised, damn it. It was how the bastard Oscar promised the nightmare would end. And God help her, she was ready. Because she knew all too well that sometimes death was actually the better fate.

Kicking her legs out from beneath the sheet, she rammed the heel of her foot into Elian's shin, sending him stumbling backwards. She leaped to her feet, her hands strangling the material around her chest as she charged out of the bathroom and through the bedroom. The door was still ajar and she ripped it open, Elian's curses and threats following her over the threshold and onto the banister-rimmed landing. A wall of three, thickset bodies was quickly erected in front of her, and without slowing her pace, she pummeled into the center man's chest. He didn't budge but instead broke into laughter that his cohorts quickly joined in, all three men baring tobacco-stained teeth as they mocked and taunted her.

She lashed back with a shrill scream, before willingly breaking her own Cardinal Rule and beginning to beg. "Help me! Please! Help—" Another scream stole both her articulation, leaving behind only panic, as Elian's muscular arms locked around her waist. He lifted her effortlessly, the sheet slipping away from her body as she kicked and twisted and beat against his arms through each rushed step that took them back inside the bedroom.

"Stop! _No!_ Let me go!" she shrieked, as she was shoved, face-first, against the wall. Elian's hands closed around her forearms, wrangling them behind her back, trapping them as she continued to thrash. A sob seared her throat as her upper arm was pinched, a sharp prick against her skin following, and she landed a final, weak kick against his shin as a hotness began to overtake her.

"Stupid whore!" Elian huffed, withdrawing a hypodermic needle from her arm. He tossed the syringe to the floor, clear liquid still oozing from its tip, and grabbed Dee Dee by an arm. She screamed again, resulting in a backhand to her already bruised, left cheek that sent her head reeling back. And as he released his grip on her, she slid gracelessly down the wall, landing in a heap on the floor. There was a fire raging beneath her skin, spreading quickly, engulfing her mind and blurring her vision. The drug began to claim her, dulling her senses, stealing her coordination, jumbling her thoughts, and she slumped further as Elian's echoing voice commanded, "Don't fight it. It'll help you relax, and it'll make traveling a more pleasant experience for both of us."

"Travel?" Dee Dee slurred, as hands once again took hold of her, took control of her, and dragged her back toward the bed. "…Miami…"

"Miami, yes."

"Miami…" she repeated, the word barely decipherable. She could feel the panic releasing its grip on her and was thankful for the momentary respite. And as much as she knew she should continue to fight, she no longer had the desire or energy. She felt oddly calm—relaxed like Elian had told her she should feel—and no longer able to grasp hold of the fear that she somehow knew would once again overpower her when she emerged from the drug-induced lull he had delivered her to.


	4. Chapter 4

**FOUR**

The sun had set, leaving behind a coolness. It was refreshing and brought with its cleanliness the hope that, once the sun rose again, the world would be righted. Life would continue just the way it was supposed to.

Hunter reclined stiffly in the chair, the activity around him a blur only in his peripheral vision. Instead of paying attention to it, he stared through the open doorway into the captain's office. Charlie lay sprawled across the leather sofa, one arm propped over and shielding his face, the other resting across his stomach. It had been somewhere around hour eight of standing at the landfill when he'd started complaining about a sour stomach, as they had watched the cadaver dogs sniff through the piles of trash and the black-coated FBI agents roam aimlessly behind them.

And when the sun set, it went down on one more wasted day.

Hunter pulled his stare off Charlie, feeling more than a little guilty for the fatigue he'd seen in the captain throughout the long day. Once they arrived back at the precinct, Hunter directed Charlie through the building and deposited him on the sofa in his office, and he didn't make it back out of the room before the captain's soft snores filled the air. Charlie was feeling the effects of Dee Dee's disappearance more than he would admit. Of course, he was worried—the only person who didn't seem worried was Gideon Stanton. But Hunter knew Charlie also felt guilty, and that was proving to be a far more difficult opponent than his concern.

Hunter opened the top drawer of his desk, his chest tightening at the sight of the airline tickets. He ran a finger across the width of the top ticket, the departure date leaping out at him. Their flight had taken off less than thirty minutes earlier. He'd spent months planning how the evening would unfold. He would drive Dee Dee home after work, leaving her with a vague—and even more mysterious—list of clues as to what to pack, then he would head home to pack himself and spend the next few hours taking her phone calls. She would call over and over, begging him for information, and he would tease her by not giving her any. They would banter back and forth, Dee Dee pretending to be annoyed, him laughing at her poor acting skills. Or that was how he'd planned it, at least.

An officer sidled up to Hunter's desk, pulling him out of his thoughts. The man shifted awkwardly from foot to foot, before motioning behind him at the front of the squad room and a lost-looking blonde in the doorway. "She's been waiting around here most of the day," the officer said. "Says she needs to talk to someone."

"Then find someone," Hunter grunted, taking a quick glance around the room. "Anyone else, Turner. I'm not—"

"She doesn't want just anyone," Turner interrupted. "That's why she's been waiting. Says it has to be Captain Devane or you." He shrugged. "Her, uh. Her name is Trask—Mallory Trask. That DEA guy who got killed? He was her husband."

Hunter's stare found the blonde again, his jaw clenching. He'd been wrong initially—she didn't just look lost, she looked sad. Devastated. She looked like he did. "Trask…" he whispered tightly, finding himself unable to tear his gaze off her. "What does she want?"

"To know about her husband, I guess. I didn't ask, and she didn't say."

Hunter nodded, hesitating a few more seconds before lumbering to his feet. Even before he was upright, the blonde was halfway across the room. A handshake was their initial introduction, before Hunter directed her to the chair beside his desk. He didn't know how to start up a conversation with her, or even if he wanted to. Because Mallory Trask represented what Charlie and he had expended the vast majority of their energy trying to outrun throughout the day.

The truth.

The truth that was revealed by Jordan Trask's battered body. The truth that the men who'd tortured him were the same, heartless bastards that held Dee Dee's life in their hands. And the truth in knowing that if they could be so brutal to Trask, there wasn't any reason to believe they wouldn't be equally as brutal to her.

"Sergeant Hunter. I'm…my name is—"

"Yeah. I know who you are," he responded quickly, edgier than intended. "But, look. I don't have…there isn't any new information."

She nodded, biting down nervously on her bottom lip. She was attractive; Hunter couldn't help but notice. Tall and slender, with shoulder-length, blonde hair and wide, hazel-colored eyes, she looked like Dee Dee's polar opposite. Where Dee Dee was more outspoken, Mallory Trask seemed soft-spoken, almost shy. Not afraid to be heard, but selective in whom she chose to let hear her. "The, uh…the woman—the police officer?" she asked, tears clouding her eyes. "She's your partner, isn't she?"

Hunter hesitated, before answering with a begrudging nod. "She's my partner."

"Have they…" Her voice broke momentarily, her expression turning from one of sorrow to sympathy. "No one's really told me much. Have they found her?"

Hunter's jaw drummed, and he answered with a faint shake of his head.

She nodded in return, with a look he interpreted as relief. "Sergeant Hunter, I, um. Actually, I think I might have some information. But I can't talk to anyone associated with the DEA."

"Information?" He leaned into his desk, closer to her, catching a whiff of her perfume. It was familiar—sweet but subtle, enticing. The same perfume Dee Dee wore, he realized, and it was all he could do not to close his eyes and let his mind be tricked into believing that it was Dee Dee sitting next to him instead of Jordan Trask's grief-stricken widow.

Mallory cleared her throat, stealing an anxious glance around the room. "The last time I talked to Jordan," she began, her voice hushed, "was about three weeks ago. He didn't say much about the case. He always said the less I knew, the better. But he did tell me that he was worried. He didn't think he was the only person working inside Velasquez's organization. He thought there could be someone else, someone who was working both sides."

"Someone who…" Hunter asked quickly. "Did he say—"

She shook her head, quieting him. "He didn't say anything else. But I know he was worried that his cover might've been blown even before John Diego Velasquez came into the country. Sergeant Hunter, I don't think Jordan expected to survive that raid."

Hunter propped his elbows on the desktop. "Okay, so. Do you know if he talked about it with anyone else?"

"He didn't know who to talk to. He wasn't sure who he could trust."

Hunter straightened, pulling away from her and the nauseating aroma of her perfume. "Why are you telling me? You should talk to the FBI, there's not much I can do—"

"Because if your partner was with Jordan, he might've told her who it was."

Hunter's expression tensed, as he reached the same conclusion that Mallory Trask had arrived with. If Trask had blown the inside man's cover, it would've sealed Dee Dee's fate. It would be too risky to let her live. She was a cop, and she would expose him. Which meant the person Dee Dee and he had vowed to save might be the very one who'd gotten her killed.

"We haven't found a body," he said, more in assurance for his own peace of mind than Mallory Trask's.

She shrugged faintly. "Maybe you won't. I hope you don't. I mean, I really do hope that you find her." She smiled fleetingly, awkwardly. "I just. I thought someone should know, because if there is a man working on the inside and if he's responsible for what happened to Jordan, I want him caught. I want him to pay for what happened to my husband."

"Someone will pay," Hunter returned tightly. "Don't worry. I'm personally gonna make sure that someone pays."

**xxx**

When she awoke, slumped in the back row of the tiny plane, it was dark outside. Still or again, she wasn't sure. She had no idea how long they'd been flying, or even where they were. She just knew that the sights she was familiar with—the bright lights of Los Angeles—weren't visible outside of the plane's windows. It was only darkness enhanced by the heavy tint on the windows.

She was in the middle of the backseat, with Elian to her right. Another man—one she recognized from the house—was directly in front of her. And three rows ahead of them sat five more men, talking too low for her to understand what was being said. Inside the cabin, the air was thick with cigarette smoke, making it hard to breathe and her eyes and throat itch. She felt weak, woozy, and her eyelids were heavy, each blink slow and prolonged.

Lightly touching her aching, left eye, she noticed the sleeve of her shirt. With a glance down the length of her body, her stomach clenched. She was dressed; wearing a white t-shirt with pale pink flowers printed down the front and a beige and white-striped peasant skirt. It fit loose around her waist, the skirt tangled around her legs and the hem hitting just below her ankles and exposing her bare feet.

_"I'll have something brought in for you. Something suitable for traveling."_

_Something suitable_. What a joke. She looked like a thrift store junkie, and even worse, one that was a throwback to the sixties. Taking a puffed section of the skirt's material between two fingers, she pinched it lightly. The son of a bitch had dressed her, which meant he'd touched her. But considering her last memory was of being completely exposed, maybe she should be grateful for the one small favor he'd afforded her. No matter how ridiculous of a costume he'd put her in, at least she was covered again. And as small of a comfort as that was, it was still a comfort.

"Welcome back."

She shifted her gaze toward Elian; a cigarette smoldered in his right hand, smoke rising and swirling from its illuminated cherry. The sight of him and the smell of his damned cigarette loosened the clenching in her stomach and sent it into a full-blown spin. She could tell that she'd been washed. Dampness clung to the ends of her hair and her skin felt raw. But even still, she could feel Oscar. She could still hear his voice, berating her, deriding her, laughing when she cried, threatening her when she was defiant. And all of it made her hate him—and the monster beside her—even more.

"You should rest more," Elian said, his tone nauseatingly casual. "The sedative can't be completely out of your system yet."

She shook her head slowly, uncoordinatedly. "What'd you give me?" she asked, her voice a weak croak.

"Something to calm you down. You needed it; you were out of control."

Her eyes widened slightly, inadvertently, and she winced as a burn radiated from the corner of her bruised, left one. Any form of controlling was acceptable to the son of a bitch—drugs, physical force, humiliation. The method didn't matter to him as long as the end result he wanted was achieved. Both his brother and he had already proven that. Just like they'd shown her that begging for sympathy or understanding was useless, because they didn't possess either emotion.

She cleared her throat, only dryness scratching its way down. "Where are we going?"

"To my home," Elian responded aloofly. "That's all you need to be concerned with. Now, try to rest."

"I don't want to rest," she hissed, not backing down as his glare hardened on her. "I want to go home."

He took a drag off of his cigarette, his cheeks concaving. "You are going home," he said, a stream of smoke filtering out of his mouth.

"_My_ home. I don't want yours."

"Unfortunately for you, what you want is of no concern to anyone here."

Dee Dee stared at him, still wide-eyed. She had to think—_think_. His father was the reason behind everything. Oscar had wanted revenge; he'd made that painfully clear. But Elian— _He didn't like waste_. Hadn't he said that? And that was all she was to him, something—a _thing_—to repurpose instead of throw away. But she didn't matter to him, what she wanted didn't matter. At least no more than it had to his soulless bastard of a brother.

"You need to understand," Elian continued, before taking another drag off his cigarette. "You're not here because I have feelings for you. I find you attractive, but not so attractive that I'd risk my freedom for you."

"But that's exactly what you're risking," Dee Dee argued. "I'm a cop. As long as I'm missing, they're going to keep my case open, and that means they'll keep looking for me."

"And that's supposed to worry me?"

"Yes," she replied firmly. "It should."

A smile flickered on his lips, followed by a slow shake of his head. "You're the one who should be worried. You seem to have difficulties following rules, and that could prove to be quite a problem for you. If I were you, I'd stop talking so much and start listening more." He leaned closer to her, his stale breath wafting across her face as he added, "I don't like loquacious whores, they make me tense. And when the tension gets too great, I have to find a way to work it off. I'm quite sure it'll benefit you to keep that in mind."

What in the hell was going on? Was it even _real_? Dee Dee couldn't tell anymore. But whatever was going on, the bastards obviously had the upper hand. She wasn't sure how long she'd been at the compound, but she knew it had been more than one day, probably more than two, and no one had found her in that amount time. To hear the bastards talk, no one had even gotten close. And now that she was being moved—_Miami_. The son of a bitch had said Miami, hadn't he? He was taking her to the other side of the country, thousands of miles away, far enough for her to get lost for good.

"There's no need to be frightened," Elian said, startling Dee Dee out of her thoughts. "If I intended to kill you, I would've done so already. But it's not my plan. Not the immediate one, at least."

"Then what is your plan?"

He shrugged lazily. "It's not for you to worry about." Taking another drag off his cigarette, he held the smoke in his lungs for a moment before releasing it in one, long stream. "I can offer you a comfortable life. You'll have the things you need, and in time, you'll adjust. But…" He shook his head, frowning. "I can also make it so your life is not so comfortable. It's your choice. The type of life you have is up to you."

His hollow stare swallowed her, and Dee Dee quickly dropped her gaze. "You can't just…take…my life…from me."

"Whatever you think I'm taking, it doesn't exist anymore. The only life you have now is the one I've chosen for you. And you'll be wise to keep in mind that I can take it at any time, also."

She took in a breath, lifting her gaze, her stare having turned cold. "Then maybe you should. Maybe I lied—I am DEA. I'm a DEA agent, and I knew exactly what was going to happen in that warehouse. I was prepared to kill your father if I got the chance. So, why not go ahead and kill me? That'd be real justice, wouldn't it? Kill me like your brother killed Jordan Trask."

He shook his head, smiling. "You're a bad liar. Besides, I have it on good authority that you're not DEA. You're a Los Angeles police officer, just like you said. But who you were doesn't matter anymore."

She turned away from his self-righteousness and refocused her attention outside the window. "Someone will see me. When we land, someone will notice—"

"All anyone will notice is what they're told to notice. You're with me, that's all anyone will pay attention to."

No one would question her presence, the realization cut through her like a knife. No one would give her a second thought or question Elian. No one would care who she was or why she was with him. The people she would encounter once they landed in Miami would view her being there as defensible as Elian did. "Please," she whispered, tears biting at her eyes. "Let me go home."

"Ah…" he said, motioning toward the window with a nod. "But you are home."

The bright city lights of Miami broke through the clouds, flickering and glistening in the darkness. The sight of them pushed the sobs Dee Dee had been fighting to the surface, her emotions taking hold of her with a suffocating grip.

Elian was right.

There wasn't anywhere for her to run, and no one who seemed willing to help her. She was alone and lost in an unfamiliar world—someone else's world. One that Elian didn't seem to want her to be a part of anymore than she wanted to be a part of it. But still, he would force her to stay in it, anyway.

Through threats and promises and cruelty. And under the guise of frugality.

**xxx**

The deadbolt detonated like a bomb.

Echoing. Deafening.

Hunter gave the door a push, following it inside the house. Stale air rushed to greet him, the kind that reeked of having settled, of not having been moved or refreshed in too long of a time. Taking in a breath, he deposited the key ring in the front pocket of his trousers and then gave the door a shove closed.

_Click_.

A shiver shot through him as the barrier settled into the jamb, once again locking in questions and locking out answers.

_"Damn it, Hunter. I thought we agreed you'd take a day off?" Captain Devane chided, coming to a stop on one side of Hunter's desk, as the detective sidled up to the other side. "The last time I checked, six hours weren't anywhere close to twenty-four."_

_"You said I should take a day off," Hunter grumbled. "I never agreed to it."_

_"Hunter, go home. There's nothing you can do here."_

Hunter had responded to the captain's directive by ignoring him. He knew Charlie was right, or that he had at least a semi-valid point. Even with Remy Bates' reluctant confession weighing on all of their minds, the Feds were still handling Dee Dee's case with a don't-ask-because-we-won't-tell, tight-lipped approach. So, like they'd been ordered to do, they had kept waiting. Not patiently, but waiting. They ordered in food—even though none of them ever managed to eat—showered in the locker room, and pretended to sleep in the crib. They had been afraid to leave, all of them. Afraid that they would be at the wrong place when information came in, or a body was found, or—God willing—a still breathing one was transported to a hospital. Or better yet, that one in particular walked through the door into the squad room unscathed and still whole.

Finally, Charlie told him to go home; he'd made it a command. Twenty-four hours off to reenergize and clear his head was the directive, and Hunter tried to follow it. He tried to exist inside the beach house with life going on around him noisily and normally. It wasn't that friends and family weren't being supportive; they were trying. But for as worried as he knew they all were about Dee Dee, their lives couldn't come to stops—as he'd repeatedly been reminded throughout the four hours and twenty-two minutes he'd spent at home brooding and coming apart at the seams over things that he normally wouldn't even notice.

So, he'd gone back to work. He'd had to.

At the time, he hadn't been able to think of anywhere else to be.

_"Well," Charlie began, after Hunter refused to budge from his position at the side of his desk, making it clear he would continue to ignore any commands that he couldn't stomach versus be bullied into pretending to follow them. The captain glanced back over his shoulder, toward his office, a deep-set frown settled on his lips. "I suppose as long as you're here…"_

_"As long as I'm here, what?" Hunter barked, what few nerves he had left snapping at the thought of having to pay attention to any case other than Dee Dee's. If Charlie even suggested he work something with someone else, he would come apart. He knew that he would; he could already feel an outburst slicing at his insides, fighting to get out. And whom he unleashed it on wasn't a priority, much less a concern. He just needed five seconds of relief from the damned, suffocating tightness in his chest._

_"Come on, Hunter. In my office."_

Hunter came to a stop in the center of the living room, facing the front window. A haze had settled outside, the inception of yet another sunset. He'd suffered through long days before, too many to count anymore, and even though he'd always known it, he'd just started to realize how much he relied on Dee Dee to keep him moving once his motivation started dragging. She was like a constant push behind him, shoving him forward when stopping was all he wanted to do. There wasn't anything in particular she did that he could pinpoint; she was just herself—a touch of reasoning to offset his irrationality, a burst of energy to offset his exhaustion, a nudge of lightheartedness to offset his brooding.

Turning away from the windows, he completed a full circle in the room. In the fading sunlight, he could see the layer of dust that had settled on the furniture, and the plants that dotted the room had begun to wilt.

But for the most part, nothing had changed. Even though everything had.

_Crossing the threshold into the captain's office, Hunter came to a dead stop. His glare landed on Gideon Stanton leaned against the far wall with his hands buried in the front pockets of his damned, tailored pants. Stanton quickly broke eye contact and Hunter grunted a laugh. The clown was a piece of work, busting his way into their investigation like he had some fucking clue how to work it and strutting around like he had a big enough set of balls that anyone would actually find him intimidating. _

_"Hunter, you remember Special Agent Stanton," Charlie said stiffly, giving his door a push closed after following Hunter into the room._

_The agent nodded once, firmly. "Sergeant Hunter." His brows lowered, the outer corners of his eyes wrinkling. "Sorry this visit isn't under better circumstances."_

Better circumstances_. Hunter's heart lurched to a stop, his lungs instantly constricting. It had been another twenty-four hours since Stanton had shown his face. The jackass hadn't called or gotten in touch with any of them, and over half the calls placed to him had been ignored. And now that he'd finally decided it was time to make Dee Dee a priority, he thought he could skirt around his own incompetence with a two-dollar smile and smooth attitude._

_"Better circumstances would be great for everybody," Hunter grumbled, shooting a glance at the captain. "Especially my partner."_

_Stanton shook his head. "I understand that you're upset, Sergeant—"_

_"You understand?" Hunter hissed. "How can you understand?"_

_"Hunter," Charlie said in warning._

_"No!" Hunter barked, his wide-eyed stare darting between the captain and agent. "He's left us hanging since this started. He shows up only when it's convenient for him, and he never says anything when he's here. I'm tired of the fucking run around, Charlie."_

_"I've been working this case around the clock!" Stanton snapped back, his jaw clenching. "Not one man on my task force has even taken a piss break since the night of the raid. So, sorry if I don't have time to baby-sit you, too, hotshot—"_

_"Baby-sit?" Hunter took a quick step backwards. "You son of a bitch, you're a real piece of work."_

_Stanton's gaze shifted to a rigid Charlie. "Captain Devane," he began, "there've been some new developments. That's why I'm here."_

_Hunter took another step back, and another. The room began to spin in his peripheral vision, the jackass in front of him remaining stock-still at the end of the whirling tunnel. _New developments_. He knew enough about the FBI to know they didn't waste their time delivering good news in person. They would make a phone call when they got around to it, it was how they worked—flaunting the belief that their time was more valuable than everyone else's. So, if the time-constrained son of a bitch had made a trip across town to deliver news in person— "What developments?" he asked._

_Stanton shuffled his feet and rolled his shoulders, stalling, "Not exactly the kind we were hoping for," he admitted hesitantly. "There, uh. There was a residence we were checking into—out in Malibu. The owner's listed as an Isabel Ramirez. Yesterday, a call came in from a neighbor. He'd been outside, in his yard, heard what he thought was a gunshot. So, we went in last night, raided the property."_

_"Yesterday?" Hunter blurted. _

_Stanton nodded. "We've been watching it for a while," he answered. "But there's never been any noticeable activity, certainly nothing to raise any red flags, and this Ramirez woman, we haven't been able to find anything on her. So, there's never been a reason to search the property."_

_Hunter's mouth fell open, his glare glued to a stone-faced Stanton. "Never been a reason? We're talking about a missing cop! To hell with Isabel Ramirez's rights, what about Dee Dee's?" He shook his head, growling under his breath, "Fucking incompetence."_

_"Hey, we followed protocol!" Stanton argued._

_"The FBI doesn't have a fucking protocol!" Hunter seethed. "Other than to screw anyone and everyone who puts any trust in them!"_

_"Now, hold on, Hunter!" Stanton said. "Every person on my task force has put one hundred and fifty percent effort into finding your—"_

_"Screw your task force!" Hunter seethed. "I don't care how much effort they've been putting in, I want to know what in the hell they're doing for my partner right now! You obviously found something on the property if you're here, so just tell us what it is and then crawl back into your hole!"_

_Stanton shook his head, a hint of a smile his only response to Hunter's tirade. Turning, facing the captain, he continued. "We still have men working the scene—"_

_"Great," Hunter rebuffed coolly. "And while all these men are working the scene, who's out looking for McCall?"_

_"Hunter," Charlie said. "Calm down. This is obviously the only way we're going to get information, so let's hear him out."_

_Stanton took in a breath, his chest puffing. "We have every reason to believe both Sergeant McCall and Agent Trask were held at the house in Malibu, at least for some period of time." He cleared his throat, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. "There's a, uh…a building—a shed, really. Trace evidence is being collected, but it seems pretty clear that more than one person was in there. There's, um…blood, and in the house…in an upstairs bedroom, clothes…female clothes…were found. Clothes that, uh. Well, that match the description of what Sergeant McCall was wearing the night of the raid."_

_Clothes had been found—women's clothes. Jesus. Stanton seemed confident that they were Dee Dee's, and Hunter couldn't remember what she'd been wearing. Why was that, he wondered? Why were the details about her already becoming so blurred in his mind?_

_"You found…clothes…" Charlie repeated, his voice thick, as if the implication alone was choking him. "And you're sure—"_

_"We aren't sure about anything just yet, Captain," Stanton responded. "But the clothes that were found, they're pretty torn up, ripped. And there's blood. A lot of it."_

_"Blood…" Hunter repeated, his voice as thick as Charlie's had sounded. "Okay, so you found blood and torn clothes. What's that prove? I mean, do any of these tears look like a bullet wound? Is there any gunpowder residue? Or what about a cut from a knife? Can you tell—"_

_"They're torn, Sergeant," Stanton returned sternly, through a small shake of his head. "Pretty much shredded, if you want to know the truth. What's left of them hasn't been tested for residue yet, but the condition they're in… Just by sight, there's no way to tell if any of the damage was from a bullet, knife or any other kind of weapon." He took a step away from the wall. "There's something else. On the bed…the sheets…there's blood. Fluids, too."_

_"Blood and…fluids…" Hunter choked down a breath, every muscle and nerve turning rigid. "That doesn't mean she's dead."_

_"With all due respect," Stanton responded, "it doesn't exactly give us a lot of hope that she's alive, either." He shifted his weight again, uncomfortably, digging his hands into his pockets. "There was another substance found in the bedroom. The M.E. pegged it as brain matter. From the splatter pattern on the walls and furniture, looks like someone in that room took a bullet at close range."_

Hunter climbed the staircase, stopping at the top. The bed was made, sloppily but the spread was pulled up and throw pillows had been tossed against the headboard. A rush job, he figured, a last minute thought. Or maybe half-ass was the way Dee Dee always made her bed. How would he know? He'd been in her house before, not often but enough. Dropping by unexpectedly just to check in, following her inside to commiserate over a cold beer or hot cup of coffee after a particularly long day, or picking her up in the morning when their time on the clock started off in motion versus stagnantly. But for all of the times he'd been in her house, he'd only been in her bedroom once or twice.

He pushed down on an inflated wrinkle in the spread, smoothing it. The design looked like the type that would grab Dee Dee's attention—a leafy print. Simple but sophisticated, like he knew her taste to be.

_The prick's voice was a nasally drone in his ears. _

Jesus_. Hunter was sure the pompous ass didn't know how to shut up, and he'd proven that he didn't know when to. He was spouting assumptions like they were facts, up close in Charlie's face, far too personal. Over and over, babbling with self-imposed authority about life, death, statistics and odds._

_Applying each and every one to Dee Dee._

_If it wasn't for the white-hot bile scorching his throat, Hunter would have bellowed an unprofessional, "Shut the fuck up!" a good five minutes earlier. Who in the hell did the stuffed suit think he was, anyway, coming on their turf uninvited and yanking their hope out from under them? _

_They had every right to hope, damn it._

_Unlike the fucking Feds, they had an investment in it._

_"Trust me, Captain, we know how Oscar Velasquez works, and I'm sorry to say it, sir, but wherever they dumped your sergeant's body, more than likely it'll stay there."_

Body_. Even without solid proof, it's what the son of a bitch had reduced Dee Dee to. Out of laziness more than likely, or maybe exhaustion. Whichever the case, he'd washed his hands of any further responsibility. Clothes had been torn, blood had been found… fluids… So, in the prick's opinion it was easier to go ahead and chalk Dee Dee up as a loss versus putting any more effort into making her a success._

_"So, that's it?" Hunter snarled. "Just like that, you're pulling out of this investigation?"_

_"No one said anything about pulling out, Sergeant Hunter," Stanton sighed. "I'm just giving you an update."_

_"You've already got her buried and you don't even know if the samples you found are from her," Hunter seethed, an accusatory finger aimed at Stanton. "You said it yourself—the Velasquez's are into trafficking. So, couldn't it have been any one of a hundred different women in that room?"_

_"I guess we'll find out when the DNA comes back," Stanton snapped._

_"DNA…" Charlie returned, sounding as suspicious as confused. "How're you planning to match Dee Dee's DNA with the samples found in Malibu? And with all due respect, both the LAPD and I will demand a match, Agent Stanton—a definite match. Because there's no way in hell I'm going to let your assumptions bury either my sergeant or her case."_

Hunter stepped up to the dresser, avoiding his reflection in the mirror. He didn't need to see himself to know what the last week had done to him—aged him, worn him down, crippled him, some thought. But the ones who thought that were wrong. He wasn't crippled; he was determined.

Reaching across the dresser's top, he picked up a wooden-handled hairbrush. Stuck among the bristles were stray strands of hair, dark brown in color, just a few.

But a few were all he needed to prove Stanton wrong.

**xxx**

"Can we, uh. Can we…stop? I need the bathroom."

Dee Dee wasn't sure how long they'd been in the Towncar, driving. The drugs still had her woozy, the cigarette smoke had kept her nauseas. Like Elian had promised, though, no one had even glanced her way after they'd landed at the small airport. She'd been led to the car like she belonged in it, like Elian had every right to force her into it.

Elian grunted his irritation, garbling around the filtered end of a cigarette, "You'll be fine."

"Please," Dee Dee said, crinkling her nose as he puffed a mouthful of smoke in her direction. "I need to stop."

With a sigh, Elian leaned forward, glancing outside of the window. He muttered under his breath, before barking to the man behind the steering wheel, "Marcus. Pull over."

Dee Dee glanced out of both back windows, seeing only emptiness on either side of them. "Here?" she croaked. "Can't we find…somewhere—"

"If you need to stop, we'll stop," Elian returned sharply. "If you don't, shut your mouth."

She caught a glimpse out of the corner of her eye of the man to her left. At some point she thought she'd heard Elian call him Timothy. Like the other men the son of a bitch surrounded himself with, he was built big—bulky—and puffed on cigarettes one after the other. Whenever she risked a glance in his direction, she always found him staring. Ogling her, his eyes fixed on her breasts beneath the too-tight shirt. He kept moving his leg so that the side of his thigh butted up to hers, and then he chuckled when she jerked away.

The three men in the front seat were just as large—and more than likely just as depraved, she sickeningly concluded—but at least none of them seemed to be overly interested in her. They talked amongst themselves, laughing occasionally and burning through cigarettes like they were candy. Except for the one called Marcus. In the rearview mirror, she could sense his eyes on her. She'd caught him staring more than once, his gaze always shifting quickly when hers rose to meet it. Unlike the other men, he didn't smoke, and his stare wasn't comprised of the heartlessness she'd already become so familiar with. Instead, he seemed almost sympathetic, like he might feel sorry for her. But whether his pity ran deep enough to risk his own life in order to give hers back to her, she doubted. Although she would put it to the test just as soon as she could wedge her way out of Elian's iron grip.

The car came to a slow stop on the side of the road. To their left was the highway, deserted, no headlights of other cars visible, and to their right was open space. Shadows sporadically dotted it—foliage, she guessed—and trees loomed in the distance, and once Timothy's door was shoved open, Dee Dee detected the faint roar of the ocean.

"Timothy, Marcus, go with her," Elian instructed.

Dee Dee's gaze lowered to her bare feet, as the one called Timothy shoved open his door and the dome light sparked to life inside the car. "Can I…" She glanced up; Elian's stare fixed on her. "Shoes. Can I—"

"You don't need shoes for what you have to do," Elian returned. "Move. Hurry."

Dee Dee's gaze shot back to her feet. "But—"

"Go!" Elian snapped impatiently.

"Come on," Timothy barked from outside the open door. Behind him, Marcus kept watch over the abandoned highway, his stance rigid and preparatory.

Hesitantly, she slid across the seat, Timothy's hand locking around her upper arm before she emerged outside. He yanked her up and out of the car, as she gingerly shifted her weight from one foot to the other. The gravel and debris that covered the rough roadway burrowed into her flesh, stinging and causing her to step lightly as she was led around the back of the car to the edge of the open field.

"Hurry up," Timothy said, a hard shove forward accompanying his grip falling away from her arm. "You heard Mr. Sandoval, make it fast."

Dee Dee glanced from the car's rear window to the two men behind her, before her gaze shot across the field toward a long shadow of what she thought was a grouping of bushes. "Can I at least…over there?" she asked. "Please?"

"You got business to take care of, you do it here," Timothy groused, pointing to a spot of the rock- and twig-littered ground beneath the car's rear bumper. "What, now you think you need to be modest?"

"Damn, Timothy," Marcus broke in, shaking his head. "Come on, man, give her a break. It's not going to hurt anything to let her have a little privacy."

Dee Dee issued a small smile of thanks as Marcus took hold of her arm, whispering, "Watch your step," as he led her further into the field and toward the bushes. Even with his hand around her arm and supporting her, she still walked stiltedly, rocks pressing into the soles of her feet and sticks snapping beneath them. Coming up to the bushes, Marcus tugged her to a stop, nodding and instructing, "Make it quick. Trust me, the last thing you want to do is make Mr. Sandoval wait."

Stepping behind the front bush, Dee Dee glanced around the man's bulky frame at the car fifty yards in the distance. Timothy still stood watch behind the rear bumper; the other men were hidden behind the tinted windows. _Mr. Sandoval_ was how both Timothy and Marcus referred to the son of a bitch. But the other one—Oscar—had been John Diego Velasquez's son.

_"My father brought me into his life, Oscar, don't forget that."_

_"It's what your whore of a mother begged him to do."_

One bastard of a father. Two brothers. One dead, the other his murderer. _Christ_. She'd somehow managed to get stuck in a badly written James Patterson novel. But she knew there was no way in hell she could survive until the last page to find out how the mystery unraveled. She'd already spent too much time on borrowed time as it was, and the son of a bitch Elian was in control of every agonizing second that she had left.

Hesitantly, she dropped down behind the bushes, the skirt billowing around her shaky legs. Marcus peeked down at her, his brows creasing as he studied her state of dress. "Lady, what the—"

"Who is he?" Dee Dee gushed frantically, in a whisper. "I don't know who he is."

"Don't ask questions," Marcus said, frowning. "Don't play games, either. You have business to take care of then—"

"Please!" Dee Dee cut in. "I don't even know who he is, okay? I don't know who you are. So, there's nothing for me to tell anyone." She shook her head, desperation hitching her breath. "Help me, please. I need help; you know I do. I, I can give you a phone number. If you'll just call it, talk to whoever answers. My name is Dee Dee McCall. You don't have to tell anyone your name, just give them mine. Tell them where I'm at, how they can find me."

Marcus made a nervous glance over his shoulder, shaking his head. "Lady, you trying to get us both killed?" he grunted impatiently. "Look, Mr. Sandoval's no one you wanna dick around with. So, either do your business, or get out of there and let's go back to the car."

"No!" Dee Dee whispered, staring up at him, begging. "Please! You know what the other one did!"

"I got a pretty good idea, yeah. And as bad as all that was, it'll only get worse if you push this one. He may not be as bad as his brother, but for your own sake, trust me when I tell you that he's no alter boy."

"Then help me! Call the number—"

"I am trying to help you," he broke in calmly, turning his back to her. "Right now, I'm trying to help you stay alive."

Dee Dee shook her head, tears biting at her eyes. "Why? So the bastard can rape me like his brother did?" She watched as Marcus took a step away from the bushes, and heard Timothy scream in the distance, "C'mon, Marcus! Get her moving!" Maybe a part of Marcus sympathized with her, even wanted to help her, but it was clear that Elian's intimidation ran too deep—just as deep as his brother's had. Or maybe it was that it reached far beyond the boundaries of simply being intimidation. Whichever the case, she had already suffered the worst of its effects. So, what was there left to fear, other than surviving?

Digging her toes into the rough ground beneath her, she tensed. Marcus' back was still to her and darkness had settled thickly. She just had to be quiet long enough to disappear. If she could make it into the trees, their denseness would afford her the luxury of staying hidden, and then she could wait it out until sunrise again. Stay quiet, stay hidden, and the sons of bitches would start to panic after a while. Then, God willing, they would leave; they would burrow themselves back into the hole they'd slithered out of and leave her behind.

God willing.

Using her knees for leverage, she rose up onto her haunches. Stiffening. Readying. Marcus took a step further away, grumbling, "What the fuck…" as Timothy began barking again in the distance like a damned German Shepard that couldn't keep its maw shut. Peeking between a tiny break in the bush's branches, she watched the illuminated cherry of Timothy's cigarette rise and then lower, his habit of chain smoking uninterrupted by her mendacious disruption.

She breathed out shakily, the darkness swallowing her as she sprinted through a break in the trees. The ground nipped at the sensitive bottoms of her feet and her body rebelled from the inside out against her insistence, but desperation urged her on. She dodged trees, darting to the left, skirting to the right, her eyes fighting the darkness and a sheath of tears to find stumbling blocks before they had the chance to trip her up. _Stay calm_, her mind warned, a voice of reason that echoed in the distance along with the crashes of waves of the so far unseen ocean. She didn't know how long they'd driven or where they were, and her sense of direction had been turned upside down, but the sound of rolling waves warned her that they had to be somewhere near the coast.

"Damn it, lady! Get back here!"

She didn't look back; she didn't slow down. A rock lodged in the sole of her foot but she let the pain spur her on. Debris lifted off the loose ground and sprayed beneath the billowy skirt, popping against her shins.

"Lady, damn it! _Stop!_ You might not care if you end up with a bullet in your brain, but I have other fucking plans for my night!"

She sucked in a breath, her lungs instantly rejecting the humid air through spasms and coughs. Her stomach lurched into her throat, pungent bile lubricating its ascent.

"_If you get sick in my bed, trust me, I'll make sure you regret it. You're a decorated police officer, for God's sake. Act like it."_

Her steps faltered, her feet tripping over each other. She stumbled to a stop as her knees buckled, dropping her to all fours. In the distance, to one side of her, she heard the resonance of the ocean, rolling and uninhibited and strong, and to the other side she heard the distinct hum of tires against asphalt as cars cut through the stillness. _One, whoosh… two, whoosh…three, whoosh_… She coughed out a mouthful of sticky bile as her ears latched onto the swish of a fourth car speeding past the thick gathering of trees to her right. Another heave followed the silence left in its wake, and another accompanied the heavy thud of footsteps closing in behind her.

"Don't…touch…me…" she warned, her command broken by heaves, her sight stolen by the combination of darkness and tears. She shook her head, enhancing her caveat with a growl as she mopped her lips with the back of a trembling hand. Her stomach burned and head pounded, and she fought through another, sudden onslaught of dry heaves as the footsteps moved even closer and cars number five and six sped by, unaware, on the other side of the dense trees.

"Come on, get up," Marcus said from behind her, his tone absent of the anger she'd quickly become accustomed to. "You just made things worse for yourself, you know that, right?"

_Worse for herself_… If every morsel of air in her lungs weren't being used to force her stomach up her throat, she would laugh at the absurdity of Marcus' revelation. Just how in the hell did he think things could get worse? Or, Jesus, did she even want to know? Marcus obviously had more insight into the perverse underworld she was being dragged down into than she did. He'd been a resident in it for God only knew how long, so maybe she should use his knowledge to her advantage versus laugh it off. After all, an ally was an ally, even if he was disguised in sheep's wool.

"Then help me," she managed, dragging the back of her hand across her mouth again. She collapsed on folded legs, blinking out a hot stream of tears as her gaze rose to meet his. "There are cars over there, I can hear them." Borrowing just a second to glance at the thick grouping of trees, she led Marcus' attention to the sounds of two more passing cars. "Let me go. I'll flag someone down; have them drive me to the nearest town. I swear to you, all right, I won't tell anyone. I'll just. I'll say that…that…" She shook her head, groaning as the ridiculousness of her lie settled between them. "I only know your first name, so I can't tell anyone anything about you. That'll give you time to leave, to get away from here and go somewhere no one will find you."

"No one?" he asked, chuckling. "You really don't have any idea who you're dealing with, do you?" He shook his head, his smile fading. "Mr. Sandoval has more power than the Feds know about. In practically every state, hell, every country, he has people working for him. People who prepare his merchandise, move it, market it, sell it on street corners to two-bit junkies and in the highest dollar joints you can imagine. And then there're the other assholes that just sit back and keep an eye on the whole damned process to make sure there aren't any snags. Some are big themselves; others don't really amount to shit. But the point is, they're everywhere. And when someone has that kind of power—enough power to keep that many people loyal and in line—you don't just walk away from them."

Dee Dee continued to stare up at him, stone-faced, drained. Exhausted. He was different than the others. Not completely heartless but seeming to have at least some compassion flowing through his veins, and even if his methods were twisted, he seemed to want to help her. He was around her age, she figured, maybe a year or two younger. His hair was dark, cut short around his squared face, and his features were defined and prominent, rugged. But for as strong as his features were, his eyes lent an undeniable softness to them. They were a light gray in color, almost translucent as he stared down at her. There was gentleness discernible in them; a flicker of kindness that she'd yet to see in any other set of eyes whose stare had fallen on her.

"Is he going to kill me?" she asked, hopefulness marking her voice.

"He would've done it by now if that was the plan."

Dee Dee took in a breath. "Then you do it. Kill me here. Now. Tell him I wouldn't stop running, that I was about to get away. Tell him you didn't have any other choice."

He hesitated, looking her up and then down. "Then we'll both end up buried out in these trees," he responded simply, knowledgeably. "The only choices any of us have are the ones Mr. Sandoval decides on. The rest of us, we just get paid to follow his orders. Once you sign up to work for this family, there's only one retirement plan, and trust me, it doesn't include a gold watch and a pension check."

They were the ironic duo, Dee Dee sickeningly deduced. Marcus was afraid of dying by the son of a bitch's hand and she was afraid of living trapped beneath it. And she knew that no matter how long they remained hidden amongst the trees, or how much she begged him, or how many times he shot her down with his skewed reasoning, neither of them would ever be able to understand the other's point of view. One monster controlled them both, even though his weapons for doing so were different for both of them.

"Come on," Marcus said, extending a hand down to her. "Timothy's going to show up in a second, and if that happens hell's really going to break loose. The prick is a hot head, if you know what I mean."

"I can't go back there," Dee Dee whispered, a small shake of her head her feeble reinforcement. "Please, I can't—" The large hand leapt out of the darkness, a blur in the dull moonlight that she didn't catch sight of until it was closed around her arm. Marcus pulled her back to her feet, her legs giving out twice before she managed to steady them beneath her.

"Just do what you're told, huh?" he advised, as they began to retrace the uncharted course her panic had led him down seconds earlier. "I know how Mr. Sandoval works, what he likes, and one thing he doesn't like is anyone breaking his rules. He likes things to run smooth, and by smooth I mean his way. So, don't fight him. Just…do what you're told."

Dee Dee brought them both to a stop, wrenching around in his hold to face him. "Rick Hunter," she said, her voice shaky, almost inarticulate, as in the distance Timothy's huskier voice rang out.

"Where the fuck are you, Marcus? Talk to me, bro!"

"Rick Hunter!" she repeated. "He's with the LAPD. Call him; tell him where I'm at. He won't ask any questions, I promise you. Just, please. Call him."

Marcus hesitated, looking her over cautiously, with a glimmer of sympathy, before shooting down her plea with a shake of her head. "Do what you're told," he said, dragging her beside him as they broke through the trees into the clearing. "Remember that, all right? Don't forget it. Because Mr. Sandoval, he isn't that patient of a guy. So, make it easy on yourself—be seen and not heard. That's what Mr. Sandoval likes."


	5. Chapter 5

**FIVE**

_"She's exhausted my patience. Give her more of the sedative, enough to knock her out for the rest of our drive. I don't want to have to deal with her anymore."_

She'd fought them, putting what little bit of energy she'd had left into trying to outrun the hypodermic needle. Really, she didn't know why. It was ridiculous to think she could win against them. But still, she'd tried, again. And again, she'd lost.

The damned drug seemed to take effect immediately, setting her blood on fire, claiming her thoughts and strength. She thought she remembered hearing the car door slam shut, but by that point, her eyelids had become too weighted to lift. There'd only been darkness…calmness…nothingness…

Dee Dee pushed her tongue out of her mouth, wetting first her upper lip and then her tender bottom lip. Groaning, she readjusted her head on the soft cushion beneath it. Slowly, cautiously, she opened her eyes, blinking quickly as she tried to acclimate to the soft, natural lighting. _Sunlight_, her hazy mind deduced, as her eyes made a shift to the left. There was a window. Opened partially with sheer, coral-colored drapes dancing and shimmying as breezes snuck between the thick, iron bars erected on the outside of the aperture and cooled the room.

She was in a bedroom. Lifting her head a fraction, she blinked again, harder. No, it was more like a suite. The entire space was as large as the bottom level of her house, she guessed, with a living room area set up to the left of what looked to be a thick, wooden door and the bedroom area to the right of it. And adjacent to the bed was another door, partially open, a toilet and vanity visible beyond it.

She cleared her throat, struggling onto her elbows and then pushing her palms into the mattress beneath her. Sitting up, her reflection came into view in the dresser mirror across from her, her eyes instantly widening. It was the first time she'd seen herself since being carried out of the warehouse. Raising a hand to her face, she brushed her fingertips lightly over the deep purple and black bruise that stained her left eye from the outer corner to the side of her nose. Bruise after bruise marked the left side of her face from her temple to jaw bone, and her bottom lip was swollen and split.

Sliding her legs to the edge of the mattress, she dangled them over the side. Her attire caught her attention; her head dipping as she timidly fingered the white satin. She'd been changed, again. It was a bathrobe, floor-length, long-sleeved with a thin sash around her waist cinching the garment closed.

A soft knock echoed from the door, and Dee Dee's head popped up as the wood began to rattle and the distinct click of a deadbolt preceded the barrier swinging into motion. She swallowed hard, audibly, as a face peeked in at her. She strained her neck, stealing a glance around the slight shoulders in the doorway. Behind them, in a beige-walled hallway, stood Marcus. Staring in at her, still looking deceivingly sympathetic, his lips fixed into a straight line.

Dee Dee redirected her attention to the silver tray in the young woman's hands and the bowl in the center of it with steam rising out of it. The dark eyes behind the offering smiled, trying to relay kindness, Dee Dee interpreted, maybe even trustworthiness. The woman looked to be in her early twenties, her smooth skin tanned and eyes two, coal-dark buttons encased by thick lashes. She didn't wear any makeup, youth and a natural beauty made it unnecessary, and her hair, as dark as her eyes, fell in soft curls to the center of her back, the strands seeming to take on a luminous appearance as the sunlight in the room attached to them.

Dee Dee's empty stomach began to growl._ Jesus_. Whatever was in the bowl smelled like heaven. But she didn't want to come across as too eager to comply with any of the son of a bitch's demands, and so she met the woman's display of affability with a blank stare.

"Lunch," the woman announced, moving further into the room and depositing the tray on the end of the bed. "I hope you like potato soup."

Dee Dee glanced down at the ceramic bowl, catching a glimpse of the milky broth inside of it. Her stomach growled again, and she latched a shaky hand to the fold of the robe, rubbing. Her last thoughts of eating anything went back to the morning of the raid. How many days ago that had been, she had no idea. But according to her stomach's irritable timeline, it had been too long. And as hard as she was trying to hide any hint of eagerness, the soup _did_ smell good. Good enough to send her tongue inadvertently snaking across her lips again as she tried to stop her mouth from watering.

"You should eat," the woman added, nodding. "The medication might upset your stomach, the soup will help settle it."

Dee Dee hooked a clump of hair behind her ear, sighing. Nausea was attacking her empty stomach as ferociously as hunger was she had to admit. Just like when she'd woken up in the airplane. Whatever she was being given, sleep obviously wasn't strong enough to shake it from her system. "What is it?" she asked through a slow shake of her head. "What he's been giving me?"

"Something to help you relax," the woman answered simply, with a shrug.

"But what _is_ it?" Dee Dee pressed.

The woman reached to the tray, lifting the rolled napkin and unraveling it to expose the silverware inside. "Mm. Secobarbital," she admitted, almost shyly.

_Secobarbital_, Dee Dee's mind screamed in warning, panicked—_addictive_. The last thing she needed was to become dependent on the son of a bitch, especially for his drug of management choice. He'd given it to her twice, or at least only twice that she remembered. But she had no idea how long she'd been out after either dose, so there was the possibility that he could have forced more on her in the interim between knocking her out and allowing her to wake up. So, she had to be careful, compliant. Calm. Even if bowing down to him turned her stomach more than his damned drugs did.

"Just stay calm, behave," the woman said, glancing up through bats of her long lashes. "Then he won't use it anymore."

Who in the hell was she dealing with, Dee Dee wondered, a softer, gentler version of Elian's goons? The woman spoke with a definite Spanish accent that was even thicker than Elian's, but Dee Dee didn't see a strong resemblance between the two of them—at least nothing beyond their obvious Spanish heritage. So, maybe she was just another name on the payroll, someone who'd bowed down to intimidation like Marcus had done. Someone whose youth made it all too easy to buy into the son of a bitch's twisted propaganda. But maybe that youth could be used to Dee Dee's advantage, too. After all, ignorance generally accompanied it, as well as the near effortlessness in remolding and reshaping.

"Thank you," Dee Dee murmured, nodding toward the tray. "For, uh, for he soup. It smells wonderful."

The woman smiled, wide and genuine and with a hint of relief. "It's Uncle's favorite."

_Uncle_. Dee Dee choked down the disclosure. Noticeable resemblance or not, there _was_ a connection—a connection that sure as hell wouldn't work to her benefit. After all, blood was supposed to be thicker than water, wasn't it? But then again, the son of a bitch hadn't hesitated to put a bullet in his own brother's brain, so maybe—hopefully—disloyalty was a repetitive trait in the family.

"I'm Isabel," the woman said, sliding the tray to the center of the bed, closer to Dee Dee.

"Isabel," Dee Dee repeated, nodding, forcing a smile. "Dee Dee."

"I know," the woman returned eagerly. "Uncle told me."

Dee Dee smiled coyly, lifting the silver soupspoon. She dipped it into the bowl, twirling it beneath the thick broth. _Take it slow_ her mind warned. She couldn't rush out of the gates and attack, or the openly shy Isabel would get spooked and run. Dee Dee had to gain her trust first, befriend her. Somehow, she had to be patient.

Isabel plopped down on the edge of the bed, whispering an embarrassed, "Sorry," as a thin stream of broth sloshed over the side of the bowl and onto the tray. Her smile weakened but held, as she dipped her head and watched Dee Dee take her first, tentative bite.

"It's good," Dee Dee complimented, before taking a second bite.

"You like it?"

Dee Dee reinforced her compliment with a nod, swallowing bite number three. At least there were a few positives beginning to separate themselves from the crowd of overwhelming negatives. Accommodation-wise, other than the obvious, she couldn't complain. Not that she didn't find the overuse of the color coral in the new room too Floridian for her taste, but at least the space was clean and deceivingly comfortable, not to mention it was filled with fresh air and sunlight. And the food so far, she had to admit through swallow number four, was comparable to what would come out of the kitchen of a four-star restaurant.

She lifted a fifth bite out of the bowl, the spoon hovering between Isabel and her. "So, uh, your…your uncle… You live with him? Here?"

"For five years now," Isabel confirmed. "Uncle brought me here so I could get a good education. I repay him by helping around the house—cooking, cleaning. Doing whatever he needs."

_Whatever he needs_. Score one point for loyalty, Dee Dee begrudgingly assumed, as she swirled spoonful number five between her cheeks. Uncle Son of a Bitch had brought the obviously young Isabel to Florida, too. Although Dee Dee's instincts told her that it hadn't been under the influence of Secobarbital, but instead under the influence of excitement. "He…brought you…here?" she prodded. "From, uh, from—"

"Colombia," Isabel answered, matter of fact. "Bogotá. It's where my mother lives. But my grandmother is still in Santa Maria, where Uncle grew up." She nibbled on her plump, bottom lip, watching as Dee Dee swallowed bites number six and seven. "Uncle said you're going to be staying. Here, at the estate with us."

Dee Dee stared, pokerfaced, before forcing down another spoonful of soup. Taking in a deep breath, she lifted her gaze to meet the seemingly innocent one across from her. "Did he also tell you that it wasn't my choice to come here, that I don't want to be here?"

Isabel pulled her long legs up onto the mattress, folding them to the side of her. Her smile faded slowly, with thoughtfulness. "He told me…" She shrugged again, only faintly. "That it's necessary…for you to stay."

"No. It isn't necessary," Dee Dee whispered. "It's wrong." Isabel recoiled slightly, and Dee Dee immediately cursed her impatience. She knew how to gain trust; she'd spent years perfecting the skill, and she knew that it was never achieved instantaneously. So, she had to take time, move slowly, even if her hysteria was urging her to break out of the gates at a full sprint.

Isabel glanced around the room, before her stare landed on the closed closet doors. "Uncle asked me to shop for you. There's a writing tablet and pen on the dresser. Write down the things you're going to need. You know, toiletry items and also clothing and shoe sizes. Timothy is going to take me into Miami to do some shopping."

"Into Miami?" Dee Dee asked quickly, with a shake of her head. "But I thought… Where are we?"

"Coral Gables, at Uncle's estate."

Dee Dee let the spoon drop into the bowl, Isabel's gaze lowering as metal clanked against ceramic. She'd never been to Florida. When the rare opportunity to take an actual vacation arose, she generally didn't make it too far out of California. And the few times that she had, a beach had never ended up as her final destination. She'd tried camping a few times, going somewhere the hiking was as adventurous as the scenery was relaxing, and then there'd been trips to other cities that were comparable in activity to Los Angeles—San Francisco, Chicago, even trying her luck at the blackjack tables in Vegas a couple of times. But she'd never been to Florida; she'd never even felt a desire to go. And she couldn't help but wonder if her disinterest hadn't been disinterest at all but actually foreboding?

"You just have to behave," Isabel urged, sounding sincere and completely brainwashed. She offered a soft smile, one of encouragement Dee Dee interpreted. "I know you don't believe it right now, but Uncle is a good man. He took me out of Colombia where I had nothing and would never be able to make anything of myself, and he brought me here to live with him. He hired a teacher to home school me, and next year I'll graduate from high school. He takes care of me, and he'll take care of you, too, if you just behave."

The soup began to churn in Dee Dee's stomach, seeming to ignite into flames. She forced down a thick swallow, Isabel's sickening advice ringing in her ears. _Behave, behave, behave_… Isabel said it like it should be understandable to her, even acceptable. Like her current predicament—and everything that had led up to it—was her own fault. "No, you don't…he…" She shook her head, fighting down another viscous swallow. "You don't know…what…his brother, he—"

"Uncle is nothing like Oscar," Isabel broke in firmly, with certainty. "I know what happened in California, Uncle told me. He also told me what Oscar planned to do to you and that he saved you. So, doesn't that prove to you that he _is_ a good man? He could've let Oscar kill you, but he didn't."

Isabel was young, naïve—still naïve enough to buy into her uncle's lies as if they were the only possible truth. Killing, stealing, living outside of the law—it was acceptable to her for no other reason than the son of a bitch had decided that it should be. She had no other reference than his, no other forms of generosity or integrity to measure his masked depravation against. In her sheltered mind, the truth could only ever be one thing: whatever her beloved Uncle told her it was.

"I'm here against my will," Dee Dee said. "I want to leave."

"You just have to get used to it," Isabel responded, matter of fact and unaffected.

"I'm not going to get used to it!" Dee Dee hissed, tears beginning to glisten in her eyes. "I don't _want_ to get used to it! I want to go home—to _my_ home!" _Please, please, please_, she continued to silently beg, tears dropping onto her cheeks. Christ's sake, she just needed to find one conscience in the son of a bitch's twisted world—just _one_. One follower who wasn't yet completely devoted and brainwashed and still retained just a semblance of compassion, a sense of right versus wrong, one heart capable of feeling pity.

_She just needed one_.

But so far, one was proving to be an infinite number.

Isabel lowered her legs over the edge of the bed, standing. "You just need time to adjust," she reiterated, her voice soft, gentle, as if she were explaining something rudimentary to a confused child. She took in a breath, glancing toward the writing tablet and pen on the corner of the dresser. "You should make your list. Timothy wants to leave by two."

Dee Dee startled as Isabel turned toward the door, her panic once again going into overdrive. She jumped off the bed, her legs nothing more than wobbly supports beneath her that kept her frozen in place. "Bring me a phone!" she whispered, as Isabel glanced over her shoulder at her. "Please. Sneak it in, I won't tell anyone that you gave it to me. I just. Just one call, that's all I need to make. All I'll need it for."

"I can't do that," Isabel responded, her voice calm and sedate, absent of the anxiety so prevalent in Dee Dee's. "Uncle said you'd probably ask to use a phone, and that I wasn't to give you one."

"He's keeping me here against my will!" Dee Dee said, her eyes widened, filled with a combination of incredulity and pleading. "You know he is, and if you don't help me that'll make you just as guilty as he is! You could go to jail, or be sent back to Colombia! But if you help me, I'll make sure that doesn't happen! You'll be safe, I promise! So, please—_please_—"

Isabel pulled in a sharp breath, bringing an end to Dee Dee's useless begging. She shook her head, her gaze seeking out the silver tray and half-emptied bowl on the center of the bed. "You should finish the soup," she said, before pulling the door open. "It'll make you feel better. And then work on your list. I'll be back in a little while to get it."

**xxx**

_"Trust me, Captain, we know how Oscar Velasquez works, and I'm sorry to say it, sir, but wherever they dumped your sergeant's body, more than likely it'll stay there."_

It was a lie. Hunter could feel it. He knew it.

There wasn't a body that needed to be found, because Dee Dee wasn't dead.

"Hunter, go home." Charlie came to a stop beside the sergeant's desk, startling him out of his thoughts. He frowned in response to the faint shake of Hunter's head, and buried his hands in the front pockets of his trousers. "You should rest that leg of yours. It doesn't seem to be getting any better."

"The leg is fine. Just a little stiff."

Scrubbing his hands over his stubbly cheeks, Charlie dropped down in the chair beside the desk. Looking exhausted, not any worse, but not any better, than Hunter did. "What?" he asked gruffly, garnering Hunter's stare. "You think sitting around here staring at McCall's desk is gonna make her walk through the door?" He hesitated, silence hanging between them. "You know, damn it, I hate to say it, but we're out of options. If the Feds don't even know where to look, how are we supposed to?"

"What're you saying? You agree with Stanton? You think—"

Charlie shook his head, quieting Hunter and brining a quick end to his suspicion. "I think…" He shook his head again. "This kind of thing isn't supposed to happen to us, that's what I think. It was never supposed to happen to her. It's not right that she just disappears like that, without a trace, or lead, or, hell. At least a damned hint to help us know where to find her."

Hunter settled back in his chair, swiveling to the side to face the captain. "Trask's wife came in here," he admitted, his voice low, cautious. "Trask didn't tell her much about Velasquez's operation, but he did tell her he thought there was someone working both sides—for Velasquez and the Feds. And whoever he is, his loyalties aren't to our side."

"She's sure?"

"No, she's not sure. And it didn't sound like Trask was, either."

Charlie frowned markedly, his brows creasing. "Damn it. That's all we need. Did you share that with Stanton?"

"No, I didn't share it with Stanton," Hunter snapped, his tensed expression conveying to Charlie just how ridiculous his question was.

"Okay, yeah," Charlie agreed. "The guy's a jerk, and his bedside manner leaves something to be desired. But from everything I've heard, he's a good agent—smart. He knows what he's doing, and I think maybe we should trust his instincts on this thing. He's spent a lot of years studying John Diego Velasquez and his son. He knows how they operate."

"Yeah, well. He doesn't know McCall."

"And we don't know what McCall came up against. We have to face it, Hunter. Trask wasn't given any kind of break, so what's there to make us think McCall was?"

"My gut," Hunter replied, convicted.

Charlie shook his head, sighing heavily. "Go home and take care of yourself. Get back on your feet, huh? No matter what's going on, like it or not, we still have cases to solve. And the idiots in LA aren't going to stop murdering each other because of this."

"They aren't my cases. They're Dee Dee's and mine."

Charlie smiled with understanding. With agreement. With guilt. "Right now, they're just yours." He tapped his fist against the desktop, rising to his feet. "Damn, I'm tired. I don't remember ever feeling this tired before."

He turned, making his way slowly back to his office. Hunter watched until he disappeared through the doorway, with his head bowed and shoulders slumped, looking defeated. The wind had been knocked out of him, and it scared the hell out of Hunter to think that he might not ever get it back. He'd seen it in Charlie's face the day he offered the DEA assignment to Dee Dee and him—he hadn't wanted them to take it. And his feelings quickly changed to reluctance when Dee Dee accepted with more vigor than either man expected her to. But Charlie knew as well as Hunter did, once her mind was made up, there wasn't any way to change it. So, neither of them had tried to.

"Damn it, Dee Dee," he whispered, burying his face in his hands. "What the hell happened?"

His throat tightened with the threat of tears, and for the millionth time, he put his energy into fighting them. He didn't have time for emotions, not when there was still so much work to be done. Reaching into the top drawer of his desk, he removed a sealed envelope and set it aside, before grabbing a blank sheet of paper and ink pen.

_Taking personal time. Back soon. Hunter._

Satisfied with his short, to-the-point note, he tore into the sealed envelope and removed the airline ticket, reading over the printed information: _Flight leaving Los Angeles for Miami that night. No return date_. He climbed to his feet and headed toward the door, leaving behind his tears but unable to shake his fears. And the greatest and most persistent of those was the one he'd been trying his damnedest to outrun—that the unanswered questions he'd been left to wrestle with would remain unanswered. And God help him, he didn't know if that was the outcome he could live with. He didn't know if he was that strong, to spend what was left of his life facing off with the wondering.

With the ticket in hand, he walked into the elevator. By morning he would be in Florida, and if Dee Dee was there, too, he would find her. He wouldn't come home empty handed.

**xxx**

The first two days had been the worst.

During those days, she'd actually believed she would find a way out of the damned room.

Too panicked to sit still, she'd spent the majority of her time pounding on the locked door, begging whoever was on the other side of it to let her out, let her go, and then finally, just to talk to her.

Isabel had come and gone, bringing the silver tray with her each visit. The son of a bitch didn't have any intention of letting her starve to death, at least that much had become clear. She'd been eating better than she ever had at home, getting three meals a day.

Days three and four passed by in a drug-induced haze.

Elian finally got tired of her screaming, she assumed, because on the morning of day three Timothy and Marcus paid their first visit to her room. But instead of bringing breakfast with them like Isabel would have, they brought a syringe full of Secobarbital. The first dose hadn't been strong enough to knock her out, just trap her in a stupor and shut her up, but the second dose—on the morning of day four—sent her into a tailspin that landed her in a dreamless oblivion.

Day five had been spent trying to get her bearings back, after having them knocked out from under her during days three and four.

Her head had been fuzzy, her coordination skewed. She soaked in a hot bath and then forced herself to suffer through a frigid shower until her skin was tinged blue. But the cobwebs wouldn't clear and her limbs refused to follow commands. And so she gave up, just like Elian had counted on, and collapsed back into bed even before the well-trained Isabel arrived with her dinner.

Day six was occupied with exploring.

She rifled through drawers, finding them stocked with undergarments and sleepwear. The closet hadn't been neglected, either. There were low-cut, floor-length gowns with designer labels, linen slacks and shorts, skirts that hit around mid-thigh range and more pullovers and blouses than she'd ever owned at one time throughout her entire life. Shoes lined the upper shelf of the wardrobe, closed-toe and open-toe high-heels and low-heels, knee-high and ankle-high boots, sandals, flip-flops and one pair of sneakers. In the bathroom, the drawers of the vanity had been filled with every toiletry and makeup item she could ever need, and the top had been lined with more perfume bottles, scented powders and a sterling silver hairbrush with the letter D engraved in it.

_The letter D_.

Seeing that sent her over the edge, finally. Or more accurately, reignited her panic and sent her back to her previous pastime of beating on and screaming at the locked door.

Day seven was spent in bed.

She cried and cursed until long after her throat turned raw and head began to pound. She begged to no one in particular and prayed like her life depended on it. And then she slept, fitfully but at least without being manipulated by the son of a bitch's drug.

On day eight, she got her fight back.

She passed on the soft-boiled egg and toast that Isabel delivered for breakfast and instead went straight for the butter knife. Ripping through the screen on her lone window, she leaned into the iron bars affixed to the outside of the aperture and set to work on the bottom nut bolting the centermost rod to the sill. The fact that her room was on the upper level of the house was a secondary dilemma she mulled over while working on the oxidized screws. Or at least she put her half-frantic concentration into figuring out how to lower herself to the ground without breaking any bones until the knife slipped out of her hand and was swallowed up by the hedgerow bordering the house.

Her half-backed mission failed.

And at breakfast on the morning of day eight was the last time a knife of any sort was included in the set of silverware on the damned, silver tray.

Day nine was spent in bed, again.

There weren't any tears, though, no cursing or tantrums. She just laid, her mind empty for the most part except for clips of thoughts about what was slowly and painfully being lost and had been promised to be taken away. She battled homesickness, retraced the steps that had delivered her to where she was, and each time she began to doze and was then jolted awake by images of either Oscar or Elian, she put all of her energy into replacing their faces with Hunter's.

She refused to eat whenever Isabel came, refused to respond in any way whenever Isabel tried to engage her in conversation.

She just stared.

Resignation beating as brutally on her psyche as the bastard Oscar had beaten on her body.

On the morning of day ten was when she noticed.

Except for a tiny, lingering smudge of blue beneath the outer corner of her left eye, the bruises and cuts had disappeared; it was as if they never existed at all. Standing in front of the vanity mirror, she stripped off the white robe, turning around and analyzing her back in the sheet of glass. A trace of one bite mark was still visible just to the right of her spine, but otherwise, she'd healed.

And then she began to panic, again.

Since being locked inside the room, she'd seen Isabel three times a day, every day. Timothy and Marcus had been inside twice that she remembered, and each and every time the door was opened for Isabel, someone—generally Marcus—peeked inside behind her from the hallway. But Elian hadn't shown his face once. She hadn't heard his voice from the other side of the door or gotten so much as a whiff of his spicy cologne.

It was as if he'd vanished, just like he'd made her do.

The wondering if the time was finally right for him to return sent her scrambling into the bathtub, cowering in the far end with her knees hugged to her chest and stomach beginning its familiar rolling. She started to cry then, again—softly, despondently. She listened for the click of the deadbolt, jumped when she finally heard it, and met Isabel's curious silence with wide-eyed desperation.

And then she started begging, again.

Isabel's response was to scoop the robe up off the floor and cover her with it. She did it gently, tenderly, like a mother tucking her child into bed at night. And then she whispered, _"I brought tomato soup for lunch. It won't be any good if you let it get cold,"_ before once again taking back her own freedom with two knocks against the door.

Dee Dee let the soup get cold; dinner went untouched, too.

She remained huddled in the tub, buried beneath the robe until long after sunset. For the most part, her mind wandered. Back to Los Angeles, sometimes to the squad room, other times to the interior of the half-beaten down Monaco with her occupying one side of the front seat and Hunter filling the other side, and once in a while to the silence that always accompanied her home at the end of a long day. She wondered if she'd been given up for dead yet, if there was a marker planted over a hollow plot somewhere with her name on it? Her disappearance might not ever be understood, but eventually, it would be accepted, she knew. People would move on, they wouldn't have a choice. Life would still be theirs to live, and that's what they would do—live. With her as a memory, a question mark in their minds, but not an obstacle that would bring their lives to complete stops.

A file marked _Cold Case_ would serve as her legacy. Every few years some burned out cop who was biding his time until retirement would pull it out of a file cabinet, dust it off, read through it, maybe make a phone call or two to ask questions that would take him to yet another dead-end, and then the file would get hidden away again until the next burned out cop stumbled across it and bided what was left of his time repeating the process. She would become an urban legend, a ghost co-existing with theories only. There would be speculation, assumptions and uneducated guesses, and in the end, the tales would be far more riveting than her bleak reality.

Eventually, she fell asleep in the tub, with her mind drifting through dreams that delivered her to the past as a spectator only. She saw Hunter, but couldn't seem to make him see her. She heard his voice, but hers fell on deaf ears. In one scenario she watched him clean out her desk, packing everything that'd had anything to do with her into a cardboard box. She screamed, begged him to see her, hear her, help her. But he just kept packing, making her disappear item by item.

When she finally woke up, with Hunter's name still hot on her tongue, sunlight was once again heating the inside of the room.

_Day eleven_.

Through a tired sigh, she wrangled the robe behind her and slid her arms into the sleeves. The porcelain of the tub was cool against her skin, almost rejuvenating, and she stretched out her legs to soak in more of it. Laying her head back against the granite tiles of the stall, her eyes closed as another dream came back to life fuzzily in her mind.

She had seen Hunter, again.

He'd been standing at a gravesite, staring down at a marker, a bouquet of lilies in one hand. She watched him from behind another stone, the distance separating them feeling immense and infinitesimal all at the same time. He bent forward and deposited the flowers on the ground, and she waved in his direction. But like in her other dreams, he wouldn't look at her; he didn't seem at all aware of her.

_"I'm here, Hunter! I'm here!"_ she screamed, her wave turning into a flail of her arms. He knelt down, his fingers passing over the front of the stone, lingering for just a moment before he pulled his hand back.

Then he looked up, directly at her, right into her eyes.

She smiled, relieved, and waved again.

_"I'm not worried about the police—or the FBI, for that matter. Once I get her to Miami… No one will find her."_

Suddenly, the sun had brightened, flashing like a strobe, and Hunter turned his head away. _"No!"_ she'd screamed. _"I'm here—_here_!"_

Hands locked around her, strong, pulling at her. She felt herself moving backwards, zigzagging around the markers in the cemetery faster than she had ever moved before. It was as if she'd been swept up in a current, sucked up by a tornado. Everything around her became a blur as she sped past it, her body separating from her mind and ignoring commands to stop, to fight. She began to float, to fly, fading away as suddenly as a robust breeze. And in the blink of an eye, the distance grew, bigger and bigger until she couldn't see Hunter anymore. Until she couldn't sense him near.

He'd been gone and she'd been alone. Still lost.

A shiver ran up her spine, and Dee Dee bolted forward, her eyes popping open. She groaned, the resonance a hoarse echo that bounced from porcelain to granite. Clearing her bangs from her eyes, she dragged her legs up in front of her again. The soles of her feet slid along the slick tub bottom, and she leaned even further and peeked out around the edge of the shower curtain. Humidity hung thickly in the air, sneaking into the bedroom through the window. She'd opened the window on day one and hadn't closed it since, the fresh air that wafted through it helping to keep at bay—in temporary respites, at least—memories of the stale air that had been so hard to breathe in Oscar's bedroom.

A rustling caught her attention, focusing it. She hadn't heard the door open or the distinctive _click_ as it had shut again, and she hadn't noticed the familiar clatter of dishes rattling atop the silver tray. She had to admit, though, that skipping two meals in succession had weakened her resolve against entering into a hunger strike, her stomach reprimanding her with an irritated rumble when she'd first awoken. Unwilling participant in Elian's game or not, starving herself wouldn't accomplish anything—other than to diminish her own energy. And she needed to build and save that, for just the right time, the right opportunity, that one time when one of the bastards forgot to pull the door shut. Or, God willing, Elian decided she could be trusted with a butter knife again.

Grabbing hold of the sides of the tub for leverage, she rose to her feet, pulling the robe closed around her and cinching the sash. She stepped over the edge to the floor, her bare feet touching down whisperingly. Coming to a stop in the doorway, her breath caught. At the foot of the bed, grasping the curved top of a plastic hanger and scrutinizing the floor-length, soft pink-shaded dress that hung from it, was Elian.

He looked different to her, oddly better looking than she'd been envisioning him in her mind. His hair looked less greasy than she remembered, his features weren't as hard, and his eyes were actually a soft shade of brown instead of glowing red like they did in her nightmares. Surprisingly, he looked normal, not like a monster. He looked like someone she would actually notice—maybe even take an interest in—if she met him under circumstances that even remotely resembled ordinary.

"Ah, there you are," Elian said, his stare still transfixed by the gown draped in front of him. "I didn't want to interrupt you."

Dee Dee snickered softly, coolly. "How can you interrupt someone who doesn't have anything to do?"

His eyes flickered, his gaze rising. Cocking a brow, he stared at her over the rounded hook of the hanger. "I told Isabel to provide you with things to occupy your time. Did she ignore my instructions?"

"Does she even know how to do that?" she shot back. All things considered, reacting to his visit with a hostile attitude probably wasn't the best choice she could make. More than likely he would counteract her aggression with his own, and if push came to shove, they both knew who would be the first to do a face plant. As hard as it would be, she had to bite her tongue, play nice and keep remembering the rules of the game—_his_ game. Compliance led to trust, and the more the son of a bitch believed that he could trust her she hoped meant the more freedom he would give her.

She bit into her bottom lip, an eyebrow lifting with the semblance of an apology as Elian laid out the dress across the foot of the bed. She wanted to hold his stare, to show him that he couldn't intimidate her, but he broke eye contact before her point could be relayed. His gaze lowered, settling on the gap in the robe's folds directly above her breasts. Shifting uncomfortably, she hooked her arms over her chest, twisting the two sides together inside one hand.

His stare rose, a small smile crooking his lips. "I'm glad to see the bruises are gone. It would've been a shame if my brother had left scars."

She almost laughed. The urge actually bubbled up in her chest, but her shock divested it before it could reach the surface. It would have been a shame _if_ his brother had left scars? Damn the narrow-minded son of a bitch. The scars were there, inside of her, festering. But she didn't have any more time than he did to give them any consideration. She couldn't outrun the nightmares, but that didn't mean she had to slow down and make it easier for them to catch up to her, either.

Not yet, not until.

Later she could give into them; she would deal with them. _When_. But until then, she had to remain focused and clear-headed, a step ahead of the son of a bitch instead of a step behind like she'd fallen with his bastard of a brother.

It was the only way to assure that no other scars were given the chance to form.

"You're happy with the items Isabel purchased for you?" Elian asked, his stare once again locking with hers, expectation discoloring his eyes.

_Screw you_ rattled on the tip of Dee Dee's tongue, but just like her laughter, she bit it back. _Compliance_, she reminded herself, her lips trembling with the hint of a smile as she answered, "Yes. Thank you." She saw his eyes spark and knew it was his sense of victory shining through. He believed he'd won already, after only eleven days. In his arrogant mind, the battle had ended, she'd conceded.

And she would let him think that, she wanted him to think it.

The more control his arrogance took from his common sense, the easier it would be for her to make a sneak attack and steal the win right out of his self-righteous hands.

She stiffened as he walked toward her, needing only a few long strides to close the gap between them. His hand rose, moving to her face, and she turned her head to the side as he brushed a fingertip across the faint bruise that still marked the underside of her eye.

"Cover that with makeup," he directed, nodding once, firmly. "Do up your eyes, too, and put on some lipstick."

"Why?" she whispered, breathless.

"Dinner," he answered simply. "Tonight, you'll join me downstairs in the dining room."

Her gaze jerked, shooting over Elian's shoulder. Through the crack in the doorway she saw Marcus, his back to her as he stood guard in front of her door. Inadvertently, she licked her bottom lip. If she made a run for the door, Marcus would stop her. Then all she had to do was put up a good enough fight to convince him to throw another punch that would get her back under control, and then she just had to make sure it was her face that was on the receiving end of his fist. It would be a painful solution to a potential problem—for her, at least. But considering Elian's apparent obsession with unblemished skin, it would also be an effective one.

"Thanks, but…" she began hesitantly, opting to give good, old-fashioned rejection a try before diving face-first into sadomasochism. "I'm, uh. I'm…tired. If you don't mind, I'd rather eat in here."

"I do mind," he responded, frowning. "I've extended an invitation, which means you're expected to accept it." He dragged the pad of his thumb across her chin, flicking an eyebrow in warning. "Dinner's at six o'clock, make sure you're ready by quarter 'til."

"I said I'm tired," Dee Dee repeated through gritted teeth, pulling away from his touch. She scooted around him, her sights set on the partially open door and Marcus' broad form on the other side of it. But she was stopped in her tracks, as Elian locked his hand around her arm and spun her back around to face him.

"And I said you'll join me for dinner," he hissed, lowering his face to hers. "So, put yourself together and make sure you wear the dress. I did take the time to pick it out special for you, after all."

His eyes narrowed, becoming sickeningly familiar. She'd stared into them before, seen the intent in them. The first time she reacted with panic. She gave away her control, and because of it, she lost everything. So, this time she had to play it smart, like she'd been trained to do. She had to keep her head clear, thoughts straight and push fear aside.

It wouldn't be hard to do; it shouldn't be hard to do.

After all, once everything was lost, what was there left to fear?

She yanked her arm, pulling out of his hold. "Fine," she said, retaliating to his cold glare with one of her own. "Five forty-five, in the dress. Whatever you say."

Chuckling, he gave her cheek a sharp tap, before turning and heading toward the door. "Whatever I say, you'll be smart to remember that. Because I can assure you, in my home, forgetfulness isn't tolerated."

**xxx**

"Where the hell is he, Devane!" Gideon Stanton barged into Charlie's office, leaving behind the glares of the Parker Center cops in the squad room. He shoved the door closed, locking out the heated onlookers. Coming to a stop in front of the captain's desk, his hardened expression forewarned that he wasn't in any type of mood to be messed with. "Sick leave? You expect me to buy that? Come on! You can do better!"

Charlie responded first with a lazy shrug, following it with a casual, "Leg's been bothering him. Got hurt in your raid. You remember, don't you, Stanton?"

"Cut the crap! Where is he?"

Charlie rose out of his chair, his movements slow and deliberate. With his shoulders squared and fists clenched, he met Stanton's angry stare with a like one of his own. "You know, Stanton, you're on my territory right now. You got any questions about that, check my door. It's written on the nameplate—Division Captain. Means I run this division, and I manage the cops who work in it—including Hunter. And since you don't have any authority here or over my people, that means I don't have to answer your questions. Hunter's not here, that's all you need to know."

"Where he's at is my business if he's interfering with my case!" Stanton hissed, pointing a finger at Charlie's strained face. "Orders were for you to step down, and that includes Hunter!"

"Yeah? Well, my people wouldn't have to break orders if you were working the case the right way!" Charlie shot back. He'd had his fill of the sanctimonious and arrogant agent, and he was finished keeping his feelings under wraps for the sake of professionalism. He'd worked hard at doing it over the past few weeks, holding back and keeping quiet in hopes of keeping his people—of keeping _Hunter_—semi-stable and controllable. But with Hunter AWOL, he was free to unleash his own fury and frustrations without any worries that he would further fuel Hunter's already raging anger.

"I'm running this case by the book!" Stanton argued.

"You're running it like an amateur! I've got a cop out there who's lost! You understand that? And not only is she one of the best detectives in this division, she's also a personal friend! So, if you expect Hunter, or me—or anyone else in this precinct—to just give up on her, you've got another thing coming! You can brush us off all you want, but that doesn't mean we're going away! We're gonna stay right here and keep doing the job that you're not! I don't know what kind of power you have with the Feds, but around here you don't mean squat! You might wanna keep that in mind!"

Stanton took a jumpy step backwards, his own hands fisted. "Tell me where the hell he went!" he seethed through heavy breaths, his face reddening. "Where is it—Colombia? Or where, maybe Miami? Brazil? Mexico City?" He laughed loudly, angrily, with a shake of his head. "When're you idiots going to figure out it doesn't matter where the fuck you look? You're not going to find her!"

"At least we're trying! We're doing something! That's a hell of a lot more than can be said for you!"

"More than—" An abrasive laugh broke his voice, and he pulled in a sharp, strong breath. "I've sent men all over this fucking planet. You get that? What else do you want me to do, Devane? Forget about all the other cases still open, still needing attention, because of one missing person? Is that what I should do? And why is that? Because this one person just happens to be a personal friend of Hunter's and yours?"

Charlie grumbled under his breath, swiping his hand through the top of his thick hair. Stanton had a point, in a way. After all, they didn't have the market cornered on devastation, and they couldn't expect the world to stop spinning just because they couldn't seem to find their footing anymore. And it was true—compared to the FBI agents working McCall's case, Hunter was sorely inexperienced. Maybe he'd gotten a brief education on John Diego Velasquez, but that education hadn't included his son. None of them knew much of anything about the king pin's heir—nothing about his habits, or hiding places, or degree of ruthlessness. And if Hunter had talked to Charlie first before sneaking off in the middle of the night, he would've told him that his idea of traveling to God only knew where to try and get his hands on Junior was a hair brain one at best and suicide at worst.

It was what he would've said, if given the chance. Even though he knew that saying anything at all would have been a waste of his breath.

"You'd better hope he doesn't get in my men's way," Stanton warned. "Because if McCall is lucky enough to still be alive, Hunter's renegade tactics just might be what finally get her killed. Oscar Velasquez isn't inexperienced or stupid, and he doesn't have any more tolerance for the law than his father did. So, if for some crazy reason he has kept her alive, I can guarantee you he'll kill her just to get Hunter off his back. And after he kills McCall, he'll kill Hunter, too."

Charlie nodded faintly, reluctantly agreeing but not conceding. "Maybe," he said. "But at least Hunter will go down doing something, and you know what, Stanton? That's a hell of a lot more than can be said for you. You gave up on this mission before it even started. I went to my people like you asked, and I found two of the best volunteers you could've ever hoped for. And I promised them they'd be trained and prepared—by you. They trusted me, damn it, and they believed me when I told them that they could trust you." He shook his head, sinking down into the chair. "You let us all down."

"You wanna know who let McCall down?" Stanton argued. "Her partner. Hunter screwed up his mission right from the get-go. I mean, come on. Christ's sake, it was a damned flesh wound. And he let it take him down, put him out of commission?"

"Hey, a second bullet came damn close to penetrating his vest. He _was_ down, Stanton. He was hurt, and there's no way in hell I'm going to let you turn this around on him. He did his job, and if anyone gets the opportunity to ask McCall what happened, she'll say the same thing. I guarantee it."

Stanton laughed callously. "If anyone gets the opportunity to ask McCall, right." He shook his head, spinning toward the door and muttering on his way out, "Like there's a chance in hell that's going to happen." 


	6. Chapter 6

**SIX**

The house was as big as she'd imagined while locked away in her tiny corner of it.

When Marcus ushered Dee Dee out of her room, she used every second as an opportunity to analyze her surroundings. The upstairs hallway was long with beige-colored walls and large, thickly framed paintings hanging randomly down its length. Closed doors lined the corridor, twelve total that she'd had the time to count, and ornately framed chairs and benches sporadically dotted the space. The staircase opened up around the corner to the left of her room. It was wide with polished banisters bordering both sides and descended into a lavish, marble-floored foyer.

At the foot of the stairs, no more than five feet across the foyer, were double doors, iron barred windows cut into the tops of both. The doors led to the outside, her first step toward freedom, but she barely had time to count the number of deadbolts notched into the thick wood before Marcus directed her through a sharp turn to her right. There was another hallway, more expensive artwork and furniture, doors scored into either side. She glanced inside of one room that appeared to be an office, another that she assumed was a media room of some sort, and a third that looked to be a library with shelves lining the walls and hardback books stuffed cover-to-cover across each.

The heels of her shoes clicked stiltedly against the floor, the soles of Marcus' thudding in a rhythmic drone. She felt ridiculous in the dress, spruced up like a schoolgirl going to Prom. The low-cut bodice separated into a V, connecting to the pleated waistband just beneath her breasts and hugging her back snuggly beneath her shoulder blades. The skirt was straight but full, the sheer material sashaying around her hips and legs through every step that Marcus pushed her through. She'd fixed her hair and made up her face, just like the son of a bitch demanded. Why, really, she wasn't sure, other than the damned rule of compliance had been a relentless bastard that pounded away at her brain throughout the duration of her unenthusiastic primping.

Another left turn through a dome-shaped doorway and Dee Dee's gaze instantly landed on Elian at the other end of the spacious room. It was the dining room, obviously, with a long wooden table occupying the centermost area. Six chairs were pushed beneath the structure on either side, along with one at each end. A place setting was in front of every seat, and in the middle of the table was a crystal vase, an arrangement of fresh orchids in it.

The aroma of the flowers filled the room, and Dee Dee flared her nostrils in retaliation to the overwhelming sweetness. Self-consciously, she brushed her bangs away from her eyes, nervousness sweeping through her as Elian made a turn to face her. His eyes shifted conspicuously, looking her over from head to toe before he gave a small nod of what she sickeningly interpreted as approval. He cocked an eyebrow and lifted the goblet he held, pulling in a sip of the liquid. For a son of a bitch, he cleaned up nicely, she reluctantly admitted. Wearing a black suit, with his hair less slicked than she was used to seeing it and his chin and cheeks appearing freshly shaved. Fat-banded, gold rings circled two of his fingers—the middle finger of his left hand and index finger of his right one—both with large, square cut diamonds that caught the gleam of the light from the overhead chandelier. He motioned at her with a tilt of the glass, adding another, firmer nod for reinforcement, and Marcus' hand instantly unlatched from around her upper arm.

"Enjoy dinner," Marcus murmured behind her, before heading back toward the doorway. And even though there wasn't a barrier to close and lock, Dee Dee still felt just as trapped as his heavy steps faded in the hallway and then disappeared completely.

"Please," Elian instructed. "Join me."

Her feet began moving of their own accord, even before Dee Dee realized that she was in motion. She crossed the room slowly, hesitantly, passing down the length of the table and the velvet-upholstered sofa settled beneath four, large windows until coming to a cautious stop a safe arms' length from him.

"Brandy?" he asked, reaching to the liquor bottle-topped credenza behind him. He turned back, a second goblet in hand. "Hennessey V.S., my personal preference."

Tentatively, she took the glass, peeking into its wide mouth at the alcohol inside. "Thank you," she said weakly, her gaze rising as Elian lifted his own glass again and took another drink. He seemed calm, comfortable. Like there wasn't anything out of the ordinary about the two of them being there together, like there wasn't anything remotely iniquitous about it.

His smile held around the rim of the goblet, his stare remaining locked on her. "You look nice," he finally said, lowering the glass. "Please. Have some brandy. It'll help you relax."

Her stare dropped to the glass again. It didn't matter what proof the damned brandy was, it still wouldn't be potent enough to stop her stomach from churning or mind from racing. "I'm, uh," she stammered through a faint shake of her head. "No…thank you. I'm not a brandy drinker."

"No?" he asked, sounding surprised. "Would you prefer something else? Vodka, gin—"

"No," she said quickly. "I'm not…I don't…feel…like…" What was his plan, to get her drunk so she would be more controllable, more submissive to whatever perverted demands he made of her next? Or maybe he'd spiked her drink with more of his damned drug—or a different drug altogether? A little GHB with a side of brandy would make sure his edge over her turned into complete and unadulterated power, rendering her even more helpless than she already was.

Elian pulled in a loud breath, his gaze darting between the glass in her hand and her darkened eyes. "Drink," he repeated. "You need to relax so you'll be able to enjoy dinner. I asked Isabel to prepare my favorite dish—stuffed mushrooms with crabmeat. You'll enjoy it as much as I do, I'm sure."

Christ. What was his agenda—to brainwash her just like he seemed to have everyone else who'd gotten stuck in his twisted world? Just because he liked something was supposed to be reason enough for her to like it, too? She didn't like fucking mushrooms, not stuffed with crabmeat or any other way, and she'd never been a brandy drinker. Beer with a tequila chaser was more her style, or red wine, or a vodka tonic if she was trying to come across as a little more sophisticated. She wasn't twelve; she knew what she liked, damn it. She'd spent thirty-four years cultivating her own tastes, and she sure as hell wasn't going to give the son of a bitch the satisfaction of replacing everything she knew about herself with his likes and dislikes just because in his skewed mind he believed he was superior.

"Actually, I don't like mushrooms any more than I do brandy," she responded defiantly, her stare turning cool. She pushed the drink back toward him, arching an eyebrow. "To be honest, I'd rather go back upstairs."

He grumbled into his glass and then, without taking a drink, lowered it. Slowly, he took the goblet out of her hand and deposited it on the credenza behind him, the base of the glass pinging as it touched down on top of the wood. "You're making this far more difficult than it has to be," he finally said, sighing. "I'm trying to be hospitable, so why are you finding it necessary to be antagonistic?"

Dee Dee grunted a laugh, incredulity flashing in her eyes. "Are you serious? I'm a prisoner in your house; wearing clothes you've chosen and being forced to eat your favorite foods. And you don't understand why I'm feeling antagonistic?"

He frowned. "Remember, I could have let my brother kill you."

"Maybe you should have," she shot back.

Elian laughed, lifting the goblet and holding her stare over its upturned body as he took a drink. If he thought she was going to fall onto her knees at his feet and profess her undying gratitude, he had a hell of a wait ahead of him. Maybe she'd conceded and played dress-up for him, but that didn't mean she was warming up to him. _Screw him_. Everything she'd done, she'd done to benefit herself. She had to get her bearings somehow. After all, a battlefield was a lot more frightening when the terrain was unfamiliar.

"Take a seat," he directed, nodding toward the table. "Dinner should be ready any—"

"No," she broke in, ignoring the disapproving flash in his eyes. "I told you, I'd rather go back upstairs."

"And I told you, it's time for dinner." With his free hand, he gripped her wrist. Tightening his hold, he tugged her toward the impeccably set table and then shoved her into the high back of the chair to the immediate right of the head chair. "Sit. Now."

His damned commands were gnawing at her nerves, but she followed his latest one anyway, albeit heatedly. Yanking the chair away from the table, she plopped down heavily, her glare never wavering from Elian's sanctimonious face. _Christ, is it going to kill you to play nice, McCall?_ she heard hissed from an unidentifiable corner in the room, Hunter's impatience as recognizable as his voice. It was the smart way to handle the son of a bitch, she knew—to kill him with both compliance and kindness. If nothing else, it would buy her time, and, hopefully, a little freedom, too. Because if the bedroom door stopped getting slammed in her face and locked, she would be able to roam the house, to search it from top to bottom. Then she just had to find a phone, a computer, a damned fax machine… Anything that would reconnect her to the world she'd been ripped away from.

Elian sat down at the head of the table, barely having settled into his chair when Isabel breezed into the room with the customary silver tray in her hands. Wordlessly and without making eye contact, she deposited china saucers in the centers of their place settings. _Waldorf salad_, Dee Dee quickly guessed. Another one of the son of a bitch's favorites, no doubt, and another dish she'd never particularly cared for.

"Isabel," Elian said, stopping the woman just before she slipped back through a swinging door into what Dee Dee assumed was the kitchen. "It seems Dee Dee isn't fond of mushrooms. Tonight, she'll just have the salad."

"Of course," Isabel responded, shooting an acquiescent smile over her shoulder before continuing out of the room.

Dee Dee leaned back against the hardback of the chair, not moving as Elian uncurled the napkin from around her silverware and then spread the cloth across her lap. Just like she was a child, or maybe it was that he believed she was too unrefined to understand on her own what to do with a damned, cloth napkin.

"Eat the salad or eat nothing," he said. "Isabel cooks because she chooses to, not because she's a servant. So, if you refuse to eat what she fixes, you'll go without."

"The salad will be fine," Dee Dee lied, digging her salad fork out of the heap of silverware beside her plate. She stabbed an apple chunk, impaling it on the sterling silver prongs. Lifting the fork, her mouth instantly began to water and stomach resumed its familiar churning, and she quickly clamped her lips closed again. She needed to eat; she had to keep up her strength. But trying to combat the combination of Elian's spicy cologne, too sweet orchids and nauseating curiosity about how the evening would end caused her throat to close off.

Elian grunted, chewing through a bite. He shook his head, obviously disapproving of her resistance, and dropped his fork noisily back into his bowl. "Do you enjoy trying my patience?" he asked, his eyebrows furrowing.

She fought down a swallow, returning her own fork to the saucer in front of her. "I'm not trying…to…" she whispered, shaking her head. "I'm not hungry."

Dabbing the corners of his mouth with his napkin, Elian reclined in his chair. Staring. Slowly, he shook his head, his lips pursing. "I understand the need for an adjustment period, but you need to understand that I will not work off of your time frame, you'll work off of mine. And quite frankly, the time when these tantrums of yours should have stopped has long ago passed."

Dee Dee dropped her gaze, tears stinging her eyes. "Just like that?" she asked. "It's supposed to be that easy? I have a life, you know. I, I have…people who… Just let me leave, all right? Please? I won't…I promise, I won't tell any—"

"Either you're refusing to listen or you're too stupid to understand," he groused.

She looked up quickly, anger overpowering her tears. "I'm not some damned doll for you to dress up and play with when you feel like it. You can't just…keep…me here."

"I live by my own rules," he responded casually. "And my newest rule is that you're to remain in my household, as a part of my household." He shrugged offhandedly, without concern. "You'll be wise to follow my rules without anymore arguing."

"Unlike the other people you've surrounded yourself with, I have my own mind. I prefer to use it instead of yours."

"You'll use it on your own time only. Not mine."

Dee Dee laughed softly, angrily. "So, I'm supposed to eat when I'm not hungry because you are hungry?" she scoffed. "I don't want your food, or accommodations, or clothes. I want to leave."

He cocked an eyebrow, frowning. "Be careful what you wish for, because I'm capable of granting your wishes at any time. Whether or not you're expecting me to."

"What's that mean?" she asked, a tinge of shakiness in her voice.

He cleared his throat, leaning closer and lessening the distance that separated them. "You don't understand yet who you're dealing with, but trust me, it's in your best interest to figure it out sooner rather than later. By your own fault, you're in my father's and my world now, and you've gotten dragged in too deeply to ever be able to find your way back out." He smiled faintly, albeit coldly. "You shouldn't be naïve enough to believe that everything that could be taken from you has been, because if you force me to, I'll prove you wrong. I'll take everything—your family, those friends you keep referring to. Anyone and anything that's ever mattered to you will be gone, and it will be because of you—only you."

Dee Dee swallowed hard, audibly, silently cursing her tears as they regrouped and strengthened.

"You'd be wise to keep in mind that I haven't made you disappear as fully as I can," he continued, his tone low, threatening. "My family is well known; we're respected. One word from me, and you're gone forever—_poof_—" He lifted his right hand, snapping two fingers. "You're an attractive woman, still with a certain appeal. And even though the price I might get for you would be substantially lower than if you were, say, fifteen years younger, I have no doubt that I could still get a price for you. And if that were to happen, where do you think you would end up, hmm? Colombia? Possibly Brazil? Or maybe just to prove my point I'll hand you over to one of my associates in Russia. You don't like the accommodations I've provided for you, so we'll see if you like lying flat on your back in a filthy brothel for hours on end more agreeable."

She sat frozen, unable to move_. Oh, Jesus_. What had she gotten herself into? Because, damn it, he was right—it was her fault. All of it. Everything. As much as she wished there was, there wasn't anyone else to blame. She blinked hard, fast, tears burning her eyes. "Who are you?" she managed shakily, barely through a whisper.

Elian smiled. "I assure you, that isn't something you want to know," he taunted. "But if you continue to push me, you will find out."

**xxx**

"It came down from the top, Hunter. It's over. Bureau Director Corbin has officially closed the case."

Hunter fought down a swallow, his throat dry, painful. He clutched the phone against his ear, his breaths whistling through the mouthpiece, interrupting Charlie's compassionate words as they seeped out of the earpiece.

"I'm sorry, Rick. I'm…my, God. This is…it's…too horrible to even believe."

_Believe_. Screw the spineless that were quick to jump behind fucking belief.

"They're sure," Charlie continued. "About the, uh. The blood. Everything was tested. It's Dee Dee's."

Hunter grunted his response, his eyes slamming shut. They were sure—fucking sure. Three strands of hair, fluids pulled off of a ripped-to-pieces bed sheet, blood, brain matter—

They matched.

One to another, another to the next.

One donor.

_Dee Dee_.

And that was all the Feds needed in order to throw their hands up and admit defeat. End of discussion, case closed. Who cared that it was a life they were dealing with? All the stuffed suits could focus on was their belief in death.

_"The samples have been tested twice,"_ Gideon Stanton had promised, although without an inkling of compassion. _"We're the Federal Bureau of Investigation, Hunter, not the LAPD. We don't make mistakes. The samples found in the house in Malibu belong to Sergeant McCall. And considering what was found in that bedroom, there's no way humanly possible that she could've survived her injuries."_

"Maybe I should go back to Miami," Hunter said stiffly, without any real intention behind his suggestion, merely an unwillingness to give up. His first trip had been a waste, with him spending the majority of his time being either stonewalled or running head first into one brick wall after another. No one seemed willing to admit they'd ever heard of either John Diego or Oscar Velasquez, much less offer any useful information about them. And when their Miami compound was raided, there wasn't so much as a layer of dust on the furniture. Everything had been in place, neat and tidy and perfect. Like Oscar Velasquez's staff had been expecting their visit for weeks.

Search after search had come up empty—of the house, three different warehouses, a garage full of cars. Wherever they looked ended up being the same—a dead end.

With no sign that Oscar Velasquez was close, or that Dee Dee had ever been.

"We could, uh. I don't know. You want to grab a drink, maybe something to eat?" Charlie's voice was weak, sounding like it would be easier to get sick than talk.

"I, uh. I just got home." He scrubbed a hand over the top of his head. On all sides of him, surrounding him was the only sense of peace he'd been able to find in a month's time. It radiated within the white walls, bounced off the furniture, seemed to seep down from the ceiling and push it's way up from the floor.

It was her. Dee Dee.

Holding onto him, not allowing him to let go.

"Think I'll stay in," he said, dishonesty thick in his tired voice. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"Tomorrow," Charlie repeated. "If you wanna take some time, Hunter—"

"I don't." He pushed back into the soft cushion behind him. "We should get back to work, don't you think?"

"I think it'll be tough." Charlie cleared his throat softly, with hesitance. "What about, um. Have you talked to her folks? Any plans been made about a…service?"

Hunter cringed, his jaw clenching. "There's no body to bury."

"But. What about, I mean, there should at least be a memorial service. She deserves something."

_She deserved better_ he wanted to argue, to scream into the phone loud enough that his anger shot back through the earpiece at him. Dee Dee deserved more than to have a damned eight-by-ten photograph of her in her dress blues propped up on an empty altar with one tongue-tied cop after another stuttering niceties about her and admiration for her. She deserved more than a headstone sitting on top of an empty plot. More than to have her possessions auctioned off and given away like they'd never meant anything, like they'd never been handpicked and special.

She deserved more than to be remanded to a memory.

"So, uh. Remember. Tomorrow, you know. You don't feel like coming in—"

Hunter breathed in the coolness that comprised the air, his gaze wafting around the room. Lingering for just a second on every object, every possession, everything that was still a part of Dee Dee.

Glancing down at the house key cupped in his palm, he closed his fingers around it.

"I'll be there," he said. "Business as usual."

**xxx**

She'd been wrong.

The first two days under lock and key hadn't been the worst. Days eleven through fifteen had been.

Or, no—_no_. She was wrong again.

It hadn't been the days that had been the worst. It had been the nights.

Dee Dee lay balled beneath the bedspread, her body a twisted mass of tension. She clutched the top hem of the blanket in doubled fists, squeezing and strangling. In some respects, like he'd promised, Elian was less of a monster than his brother. While coercion was still his favored form of foreplay, he wasn't brutal or condescending like his brother had been. And she should be thankful for that, she'd decided. _She should be thankful_.

She sniffled as a soft knock rattled the door, and as the knob was turned and the barrier pushed open, her heart began to beat painfully fast. As she'd come to expect, Isabel greeted her with a smile—wide and genuine. A silver tray was in her hands; steam rolling off the plate full of food.

"I've brought lunch," the young girl announced, making her way across the room.

Dee Dee shook her head, her mouth instantly turning dry. She hadn't eaten in days, at least nothing more than crumbs. Everything she put into her mouth turned sour, vile. It was too nauseating to swallow, too difficult to even attempt. And so she'd stopped trying.

"You need to eat," Isabel said, concern in her voice. "You'll get sick if you don't."

"Then help me get out of here," Dee Dee whispered, a hand laid over and partially shielding her face. "Help me. Please."

Isabel smiled. "Why would you want to leave? Uncle is taking care of you like he promised to do."

"He's killing me," she murmured, tears filling her puffy eyes. "I'm going to die here."

A blush swept over Isabel's cheeks, and she dipped her eyes shyly. "No," she disagreed through a small shake of her head, depositing the tray on the foot of the bed. "Uncle does care about you. I can tell."

Dee Dee whimpered softly, through a shake of her head. Turning her face into the pillow, she slammed her eyes closed. With a sob, she kicked her leg, her foot connecting with the edge of the loaded tray. It toppled over the edge of the bed, china and silverware rattling. It hit the floor with a crash; glass breaking, food spilling, and Dee Dee hit the floor after it. She landed shakily on her feet with her nightgown hanging crookedly on her shoulders and hands balled into fists, with tears hot on her cheeks and her eyes wide, discolored by desperation, blazing with determination.

"Help me!" she hissed. "That son of a bitch doesn't care about me! He's killing me! And you'll be just as much to blame for it happening as he is if you don't help me!"

Isabel jumped to her feet, wide-eyed and mouth gaping. She shook her head, staring down a trembling Dee Dee like she was crazy. "No! No, you don't understand! Uncle's a good man—"

"He _isn't_ a good man!" Dee Dee growled. "He's a murderer and kidnapper! He's a—"

"No!" Isabel cried, backing up toward the door. "Don't say those things about him!"

Dee Dee followed after her, her steps rushed, heavy. "Please! Bring me a phone! That's all you have to do!"

Isabel's back popped against the closed door, her hands instantly shooting out in front of her as Dee Dee continued to advance. She shook her head, strong and wild, in disagreement. "I've already told you, I can't!"

"I have to get out of here, and you're the only one who can help me—" She froze as a hard knock shook the door, Isabel jumping out of the barrier's path as it was shoved open. Instantly, Elian filled the space, his expression tight, impatience swirling in his eyes.

"Downstairs, Isabel," he commanded, snapping his fingers and motioning toward the doorway with a sharp nod of his head. "And don't worry about dinner for Dee Dee tonight. She won't be eating. In fact…" He huffed a strong breath, turning his back to his niece and facing Dee Dee. "Don't bring anything else until I tell you to. It's time Dee Dee learns to appreciate the effort you put into fixing her meals, instead of disregarding your hard work and throwing it on the floor like it's trash."

"Yes, Uncle," Isabel whispered obediently, sliding between Elian and the propped open door. As she crossed the threshold into the hallway, a stone-faced Marcus appeared, letting her pass by before pulling the door closed.

Elian took in a breath, his gaze dropping to the floor and the broken glass and scattered food. With a shake of his head, he extended an index finger in the direction of the mess, demanding, "Clean it up."

"Or what?" Dee Dee snapped defiantly. "You'll let me starve?"

His gaze rose, his pupils dilated and irises black. "Do you really want to test me?"

Dee Dee's own stare fell, targeting the mess strewn between them. It was a losing battle—defiance. She knew it, and he'd promised it. "Fine," she whispered, although she didn't make a move. "I'm sorry I spilled the food. I shouldn't have. I'll clean it—"

Her fallacious apology was cut off, her words morphing into a gasp as the back of Elian's hand collided with the side of her face. She stumbled sideways from the force, her bare foot landing on a jagged-edged piece of glass and sending her to the floor with a yelp. With tears stinging her eyes as harshly as her skin stung from the force of the slap, she pulled the thick shard out of her heel. Blood instantly began to ooze out of the wound, bringing with it another sting for her to combat, to fight through.

_Fight_.

In her hand, the glass suddenly felt heavy. Weighted. _Powerful_. She stared at it, rolling it over in her hand, her tears causing the sharp edges to glisten like a kaleidoscope.

"Put the glass down, Dee Dee."

Her fingers closed around it, one at a time. The edges nipped at her skin, creating more stings that she didn't feel. Instead, she tightened her hold and squeezed her fingers into her palm.

_Fight_.

She swung. The pointed end of the shard cut the air silently while her scream shattered it. She whipped her arm from left to right and back again, a shriek coinciding with each pass that failed to hit a target. Popping up onto her knees, she thrust her arm forward. Once, twice, three times, tears heating her cheeks as in front of her, an arm's length away, Elian began to laugh.

Taunting her, mocking her.

She didn't see the kick coming in time to dodge it. The air gushed out of her lungs as the hard sole of Elian's shoe crashed into her stomach, causing her to freefall backwards onto the floor. Her arms shot upward, outward, and she screamed again as the shard was ripped out of her hand, taking with it layers of skin and leaving behind a thick gash that crossed the length of her palm and trailed up her middle and index fingers.

"I've told you!" Elian bellowed. "I've warned you! And now, once and for all, you _will_ learn!" He stared down at her, towering over her. "It will be your family that pays the price for this latest stunt!"

"No!" Dee Dee cried. "Leave them alone!"

He pointed a rigid finger in her face, his expression empty. "Your family will die—your mother, your father! And there will be even more people if you don't learn to follow instructions! That partner of yours, _he_ will be next!"

"No! _Damn you_!" Dee Dee shrieked. "No! They haven't done anything! You can't hurt them! Please!"

"Stop your begging!" he grunted, dropping down beside her on his knees and shoving her, sending her sprawling on the floor. Straddling her splayed form, he knocked away her flailing arms with one hard smack. She cried out, and he rewarded her with another brutal slap before taking her chin in his hand and forcing her head back. Her neck arched tautly, and she kicked her heels against the floor, twisting her waist, punching at his thighs, screaming until her lungs burned as badly as the fresh wounds on her hand and foot did.

Elian tightened one hand around her throat cutting off her voice, and with the other hand poked the tip of the shard against the outer edge of her left eye. "Tell me! How badly do you want to leave here, hmm? Because if it's truly what you want, I can make it possible!" His smile spread slowly, unnaturally stretching his lips. "Slice by slice, I can make you disappear. But keep in mind, it's never easy to leave my world, and it's only as quick as I allow it to be. And trust me, I'll personally make sure that every moment up until your death is a painful one."

Beneath him, Dee Dee lay frozen, barely breathing.

"To me, you're a luxury," Elian added, "certainly not a necessity. You'd be wise to remember that." He pulled the shard away from her skin, tossing it behind him into the pile of broken dishes and ruined food. Slowly, he eased the pressure to her throat before removing his hand altogether, never losing eye contact. "Unbutton your gown."

A shiver rolled through her, and she crossed her forearms over her chest.

"Now!" he seethed, his face reddening.

"No…" she managed, her voice a whisper, a mere tremble.

Grabbing a wrist in each hand, he yanked her arms above her head. Stacking them left over right and trapping them against the floor with one hand, Elian dug the fingers of his right hand beneath the scooped neck of her nightgown and yanked. Pearl buttons scattered, pinging against the floor, rolling into obscurity. And as the lightweight fabric was ripped open, she fell still.

Elian released her wrists, but she didn't move her arms; she didn't attempt to. "_That_ act of defiance sealed your partner's fate," he grunted. "So, tell me. Who else's blood do you want on your hands? Because it's up to you how many more die—only you."

She whimpered, slamming her eyes closed. She wouldn't fight anymore, she couldn't risk any more lives. Her freedom for their safety, it was the trade she was ready to make. Because she couldn't risk losing anything else, she wouldn't allow him to steal any more from her. Not her memories, or thoughts, or hopes. Not who she loved.

Those were hers to keep, all she had left of herself. Her only salvation.

**xxx**

_AN: The story has been on the rough side so far, I know, but we're moving into a new part next. Life won't be perfect, but it will get a little better. Thanks for reading! _


	7. Chapter 7

**PART II, 1996**

**SEVEN **

His lips were dry against hers; his breath stale from cigarettes.

Some things she should be used to but as hard as she tried, the acrid taste of cigarettes still made her nauseas. Maybe it was because it was him she smelled and tasted it on, or maybe it was because it was a constant reminder of how few choices and how little control existed in her life.

He signaled on top of her, again into her mouth. A grunt, like a pig she'd long ago taken to amusing herself by characterizing him. She bit off her own breath as his became deeper and rushed, polluting her mouth gush after gush. And finally—mercifully—a slap against her left thigh was his unmistakable indication that he was finished with her.

"Put yourself together. You're a mess."

Dee Dee nodded, running her tongue over her lips to moisten them. Rolling to her left as Elian climbed off of her and plopped down on his back, she slid her bare legs over the edge of the mattress and sat up. His hand wafted across the small of her back, eliciting a shockwave of shivers up the length of her spine. She hated the feel of his touches, the gentle ones, the harsh ones, but she'd learned long ago to accept all of them without fighting against them or allowing even an intimation of her repulsion to show. Some might say it was a means of survival, others might accuse that it was the coward's way out. But opinions didn't matter to her, not his and especially not those that were uneducated. Her own survival could be damned; she'd stopped caring about it almost as soon as she'd realized it was in jeopardy. And as far as being a coward… Screw the masses that believed giving up was a show of weakness. They didn't understand. Giving up, releasing control and allowing yourself to be recreated to fit someone else's standards, were strengths.

Indomitable ones.

She slid gingerly off the bed and headed toward the bathroom. Glancing back as he commanded from from the center of the four-poster bed, "Keep the door open," she nodded her acquiescence. It was odd, she thought, how little she actually spoke anymore. She mainly just listened, like he demanded. To directives, criticisms, opinions, or his late night, drunken tirades about any topic that had become his stressor of the moment. But she rarely said anything in response; her mind rarely even concocted cerebral responses anymore.

And that was the way he liked it. It was how he liked her.

Crossing into the bathroom, she flipped on the light. The bright rays instantly rained down on her, setting her sun-kissed skin aglow. She was confronted with her image in the long, rectangular mirror above the vanity, the sight familiar but still shocking. She looked tired; it was the first thought she always seemed to have when catching her reflection. Her hair, hitting a good three inches beneath her shoulders and a deep, rich brown in color was tousled from their afternoon in bed, the jaw-length bangs hooked messily behind her left ear. Her eyes held a hollowness in them, seeming darker in color than her memories remembered them once being, and her skin was far richer in tone than it ever used to be, the result of wasting long, mindless hours lounging poolside. But she didn't mind looking like this person, not really. Looking different—like his creation—made it easier to forget that she'd actually once been someone else entirely.

"I've told Graciela to serve you dinner in your room tonight. I'll be hosting a business dinner in the formal dining room. We don't need you showing up and spoiling the party, now do we?"

She caught his smile in the mirror and responded to it with a stone face. Dinner in her room meant a locked door and isolation. Nothing new, but also not what he had promised. Maintaining eye contract through the streak-free glass, she took in a breath through her nose. It wasn't that she ever relied on his word; at least not that it would be truthful. He took enjoyment out of taking away, and he found it the most enjoyable when it was her joy he took possession of.

She took in another breath, and another. "But, you said that today…that I could…with, uh. With Isabel and—"

"I said I would think about it," he interrupted, sitting up. Sliding to the edge of the bed, he dropped down heavily on the floor. Through deliberate steps, he made his way into the bathroom, coming to a stop behind her, against her. "Don't twist my words. You know I don't like that."

She maintained his stare through the mirror, just for a second, for as long as her confidence held out. Timidly, her gaze dropped, and she nodded in both apology and agreement, as his strong arms snaked around her waist. He squeezed, the tips of his fingers digging into her pelvis, but she didn't bristle or flinch. Instead, she cupped her hands over his stronger ones, beginning a soft caress to the topside of his right hand with the pad of her thumb.

Again and again, she stroked his skin.

Like the feel of him didn't turn her stomach.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, the tile-floor still the target of her stare. "You're right. I twisted your words."

Behind her, he chuckled, the sound lathered in victory. "Such a little mouse, aren't you?" he said, nipping at the lobe of her right ear and then nuzzling her neck with his face.

Still laughing.

Reveling in reinforcing her powerlessness.

But what he didn't understand was that she had given up her power willingly, handed it over to him like it didn't have any merit at all. And maybe, all circumstances considered, it really hadn't ever had any. After all, what was power, other than the state of an over-inflated ego and the self-caressing that led to overconfidence? Maybe, really, true power lied in accepting that you had no power at all. At least that was what she tried to convince herself, especially during the bleakest moments, the ones spent trapped beneath him, or on the receiving end of one of his impromptu outbursts. Because during those moments he believed that she was submitting, bowing down to _his_ power. But in reality, she was simply focusing all of her energy on hating him.

Like she knew was expected, she tilted her head away from his, opening up her neck as his kisses continued downward to the top of her shoulder. Before she'd given away her power, sex had always been on her terms, at her choosing. She'd had a variety of partners. Not enough to be considered imprudent, but definitely enough to gain her fair share of experience. But with each and every encounter—each that had been her choice—she'd wanted to live through the moment, to be a participant in it.

Before.

When that had still been one of her powers.

She'd traded that power for the skill of manipulation, and it was one she had mastered. When she closed her eyes, she became her old self again.

Willing.

In control.

And then it was _he_ who was transformed into someone else. Someone not of his choosing, but that she chose for him to be.

But unfortunately, it was a skill that reached only as far as her own mind.

"Say it," he growled against her skin, his breath hot, stinging. "Tell me you're my little mouse."

"I'm your little mouse," she whispered obediently, her eyes closing to block out the naked images taunting her in the mirror.

"Look at me."

Hesitantly, she forced her eyes open, finding his stare still on her. Through the mirror, his dark eyes watched her, taunted her, as he continued to fondle her.

"I brought you a new book," he said. "I think you'll enjoy it. It's a crime story. The main character is a police officer—a female detective."

She saw the flicker of his smile, her own lips remaining flaccid. "Thank you."

He moved his hands to her hair, drawing the long strands together at the nape of her neck. "You should get started on it after your shower. Since you'll be spending the day in your room anyway, what else do you have to do?"

She tilted her head forward slightly, a small smile trembling to life on her lips. "Maybe I could read by the pool? Just for a while? It looks nice outside, too nice to stay cooped up—"

"I told you," he began, giving a sharp tug to her hair that forced her head back, "I'm having a dinner party. The last thing I need is for my guests to see you parading around, half-dressed."

She moaned softly, whisperingly, as his grip eased enough that she could right her head again. Pain lingered down the back of her neck, and she rolled her shoulders just slightly, her skin caressing his through the gesture. "You're right, of course."

He nodded and released his hold on her, turning towards the doorway. "I'll lay your clothes out on the bed before I leave. Oh, and Dee Dee…"

She glanced away from the mirror, over her shoulder to look at him. Before she could turn completely, his palm landed against the side of her face, hard, stinging, causing her to stumble backwards into the vanity. From both the force and surprise, she went down, crumpling on the floor, a hand cupped over her smoldering cheek.

"Don't twist my words again," he instructed callously, as her darkened gaze rose to meet his. "You certainly don't have the intelligence to question me."

**xxx**

Outside, the world was in motion.

Moving.

Whether forward or backwards, he didn't know. Couldn't tell. And he didn't care. After all, when you'd become idle the ability to move in either direction was a constant wish.

Hunter turned away from the front window. The television was on, the sound low. He heard the faint rumble of the crowd's cheers from the ballgame playing out on the set. A run had been scored, maybe a third out secured, an unbelievable catch made.

He didn't know which, didn't care about any.

Moving around the sofa, he plopped down on the center cushion. Staring down at a small tear in the navy blue fabric, his brows creased. He'd bought the piece of furniture secondhand from an estate sale. It was old and out of date, but considering the only owner had been an elderly woman who'd kept the whole, damned sofa hidden under a plastic cover throughout the forty years she'd owned it, he'd seen the seventy-five bucks he paid for it as a reasonable deal. It wasn't like he was all that picky, anyway. He just needed something he could sit on—and more often than not sleep on—that wouldn't leave his back feeling as stiff as a two-by-four.

He propped his feet on the coffee table, crossing his ankles and reclining. Behind the TV, he glanced through the kitchen doorway. He really needed to spend less time staring at the TV and more time picking up. It was what he should do, he knew, and what Mallory always bitched that he never did. Dishes lined the counter, most stacked, all with remnants of tasteless meals dried to them. Even without being able to see it, he knew that the trashcan was overflowing—it was at least a week past when it should have been emptied—and inside the refrigerator was only beer. It was the only thing he actually took the time to shop for, the only thing he ever made sure he had on hand. As far as food went, when he actually found himself with an appetite, 'take out' and 'delivery' were his main dietary staples.

He glanced at the television again, the announcer commenting that a run had been scored. He doubted he'd move for the rest of the day, laid out across the secondhand sofa was how he preferred to spend the majority of his Saturdays, when he could get away with it. Not relaxing exactly, it'd been over six years since he'd managed to achieve even a remote feeling of relaxation.

Instead, he filled his time trying to forget.

Or more exactly, trying like hell not to remember.

Hunter's neck went slack against the back of the sofa, his eyes closing and breathing steadying. Over the past six years, sleep had become more of a luxury than something dependable. He didn't miss it, really. It was an untrustworthy bastard, anyway. When he finally relented and gave it another chance to redeem itself, it always shoved the same end result in his relaxed mind's eye.

Dreams.

About her.

Flashes of fantasies that would never become reality where she was back, life was their version of normal again and nothing had changed.

Not her.

Not him.

Hunter opened his eyes, his stare targeting the white ceiling overhead. He'd logged more than his fair share of hours staring at it, willing its blankness to blank his mind as well. But it never worked, not as fully as he hoped it would. His thoughts kept whirling, stomach stayed in knots and what ifs shot through his brain like pinballs.

He knew that almost everyone was stuck living through someone else's version of hell. Some, eventually, were lucky enough to dig their way out, others never were. And he supposed—or more accurately, the past six years had taught him—that getting stuck in the past was the worst version of hell there was. Letting go was the only way out, or so he'd been told, but what no one had bothered to take the time to explain to him was how he was supposed to do it. How did the process start—with acceptance, maybe by adopting ignorance as your means of thinking? Or did you finally just have to throw your hands up, say "what the fuck" and make a conscious decision to give up? And if you were able to push yourself to that point, how in the hell were you supposed to incorporate no longer caring into the progression?

He dropped his gaze back down to the television set. _His own version of hell_… Some accused him of purposely dropping himself into it, of forcing himself to live in it even though there was an obvious way out. It wasn't that easy, though, as just walking out, or walking away, because throughout the past four years, his selected version of hell had become his home. It was where he felt safest, the most settled, like he belonged even though he hadn't felt for a long time like he really belonged anywhere.

His own version of hell or not, it was the only place where he could still feel her.

Maybe all things considered, willingly dropping himself smack down in his own private version of hell could be considered morbid. That was what Mallory had told him, at least. Right before she told him that he should get counseling, maybe even take an extended leave from work, if not retire all together. But he didn't take any of her suggestions. Instead, he moved out of the beach house and straight into hell.

It had made sense, to him at least. For two years he'd paid her mortgage, anyway. He didn't know why really, just that it always felt wrong—like a betrayal somehow—to think about handing over what little she had to a stranger. She'd lost enough already, hadn't she? It wasn't fair to take her home and possessions from her, too. So, even though he'd had to empty out his retirement fund in order to do it, he'd paid her mortgage.

And after he left the beach house, he moved into Dee Dee's house.

Except for having to haul off her sofa—after spilling a plate of spaghetti on it—and replacing it with the secondhand one, everything else had remained the same. Her clothes were boxed up in the bottom of the closet; her toiletries were crammed into one of the drawers in the vanity. At night when he got home from work, he slid out of his shoes and sat them beside the doorway where a pair of hers still sat. He ate off of her dishes, dried off with her towels, chilled his beer in her refrigerator and muted her television when the noise interfered too much with his thoughts.

All things considered, maybe he really was living in hell.

But what no one seemed to understand was, he didn't mind because he wasn't living there alone.

**xxx**

Dee Dee pushed her palms against the sun-warmed glass, lifting the windowpane. She reached through the opening, curving her hands around the thick, black bars bolted to the outside of the sill. Beneath her second story window were acres of plush, green grass. How many acres exactly, she didn't know, but the green seemed to stretch forever. Trees bordered the estate, thick, looming, their copious leaves canopying the yard.

It was peaceful, quiet.

But most of all, it was isolated.

In six years, she hadn't made it from one end of Elian's estate to the other. On the good days, she roamed somewhat freely throughout the house, and on the really good days she was allowed to venture as far as the swimming pool. But on the bad days, she remained in her room, locked inside. The solitude didn't bother her, though, not really. In a lot of ways, her years before Elian had prepared her for it. They'd gotten her used to her own company and made her self-reliant, both of which were character traits that had become necessities.

Turning away from the window, resting her back against it, her gaze flitted around the room. Snuggled inside of the armoire, the television set was on. A baseball game played out on the screen, although she'd muted the sound as soon as she turned on the set. Generally, she kept the TV on but rarely the sound, unless it was late at night and an old movie was on. Something she remembered watching before, enjoying before; something that strengthened her memories instead of helping them fade.

Sighing, she stepped away from the window and around the wicker sofa, retrieving a paperback book from the corner of the coffee table. _New York Nightmare_, another crime drama Elian had selected for her. With a sigh, she plopped down in the center of the sofa, pulling her bare feet up onto the cushion. She fanned through the two-hundred-plus pages, the typed words blurring as she flipped quickly to the end. It wasn't the type of book she would have ever found any interest in, before at least. But it was what Elian liked her to read. He thought it hurt her, that it put one more crack in her psyche. To bring her things that reminded her of her past, to shove into her face how unreachable that past had become. But it didn't bother her, not really, not as deeply as Elian assumed. In truth, all his little jabs did was remind her that she didn't want to go back anymore. Not to being who she had been, or living the life she had lived, or knowing the people she'd known. Not because she didn't miss any of those things, sometimes she still did. But because she knew the person who she'd been was gone, dead and buried for six years.

Just like everyone she'd cared about most.

She let the book drop into her lap and turned her right hand palm-up. With her left index finger she traced the jagged scar that crossed the length of her palm, rose onto the base of her middle finger and ended at the knuckle of her index finger. Time had faded the scar somewhat, softening it from the puffed, crimson-colored stripe it had once been. But still, its ability to remind her of her vulnerability was as strong as the day the wound had been sliced into her skin.

When Elian had finished with her that day, leaving her drowning in pain and bloodied on the floor, he'd walked out of the bedroom without saying a word. As usual, the door was locked behind him, and it wasn't unlocked again for four days.

And by the time he returned, she'd lost her grip on her fight completely.

Dee Dee dropped her head back, nestling into the sofa cushion and staring up at the white ceiling overhead. Balling her right hand into a fist, she blanketed it with her left hand. Squeezing gently, massaging, trying not to remember but unable to forget.

That day he'd found her on the floor again, curled up against the wall, too exhausted to cry any more. Acceptance had settled over her mind, and she'd found it more painful to co-exist with than desperation had been. For a few minutes he'd paced in front of her, not speaking, merely staring down at her like he was a half-starved vulture and she was his dying prey. Which in reality had been exactly what she'd been.

_"You need to learn."_

He'd dropped a manila envelope beside her onto the floor. She hadn't wanted to but she'd looked up at him, and the smugness she'd seen staring back at her made her stomach turn.

_"Open it. See what you've done."_

Hesitantly, with shaking hands, she'd broken through the envelope's seal and pulled out the photographs—three eight-by-ten, color prints. The lanky figure lay sprawled across the ground, his plaid shirt riddled with holes. A revolver hung loosely from the fingers of his right hand, and his face was partially obscured by a sheath of fresh blood. But the eyes were what she saw—open and empty. Lifeless. And she knew instantly that it was him—Hunter. Like the son of a bitch had promised, he was dead.

Her hands had begun to shake, and she'd dropped the photos. They'd fallen to the floor, and before they landed she'd scrambled to her feet and staggered to the bathroom. Diving onto her knees in front of the toilet, she fought to empty herself of the pain and disgust and humiliation. She choked out tearless sobs as Elian berated her in the background, blaming her, threatening to hurt more. She kept her face hidden and her eyes closed as he stomped behind her, watching her struggle.

_"Are you ready to stop playing these ridiculous games?"_ he'd finally asked, his voice low and void of emotion. _"Are you as tired of them yet as I am?"_

For once she found herself agreeing with him, because she had been tired. Tired of failing, of losing to him.

The door had opened again then, for only the second time in four days. Isabel just barely stepped into the room, carrying a paper plate with a ham and cheese sandwich balanced in the center of it. She deposited it on the corner of the dresser, her gaze lowered and hands even shakier than Dee Dee's were. She didn't say anything, just delivered the sandwich and then left again, closing the door behind her.

_"You must be hungry,"_ Elian had taunted, a smile crooking his lips. _"Are_ _you hungry, Dee Dee?"_

Had she been hungry? She couldn't remember anymore. She didn't even remember if, in the end, she'd eaten the sandwich or left it to rot. All she remembered were the pictures, the blood, and that that had been the exact moment when she'd finally given up. On her knees in front of the toilet, still wearing the ripped nightgown the son of a bitch had left her in, reeking of his four-day-old stench and feeling so damned empty, she had given up.

Just like he had wanted, she'd given in.

_"In all of our lives, Dee Dee, there's a moment of truth, and this is yours."_ He'd come to a stop behind her, towering over her, still wearing his damned smile of victory. _"Which is the stronger desire for you, to live or die?"_

She liked to think, in the end, it was intuition rather than weakness that convinced her to give up that day. A little voice whispering somewhere deep inside of her that death wasn't her choice any longer.

Sometimes, it was what she tried to believe.

**xxx**

"You do know what a conversation is, right? It's when I say something, then you say something. You know, a back and forth sort of thing, not a let's both listen to me talk sort of thing."

"Just because I haven't said anything doesn't mean I haven't been paying attention," Hunter responded. "You were talking about the wedding—again."

"Again? Wow. You say it like you're tired of hearing about it."

Hunter pushed the backs of his shoulders into the sofa back, hesitating for a split second before sliding his arm around Mallory Trask's shoulders. He was being unfair, he knew. Not listening to her like he should, not participating like he knew she wished that he would. It was their wedding, after all—the wedding he'd instigated by proposing to her. So, the least he could do was act like he was as excited about it as he felt. And he was excited.

He kept telling himself that he was.

"I'm not tired of talking about it," he disagreed. "I'm just…uh." He nodded at the TV set across the room. "Trying to watch the game. Sorry."

Mallory glanced at the television set, a commercial coming on the screen. "No. I'm sorry," she said, tapping her palm against the center of his chest and then leaving it to rest above his heart. "I guess it won't be that big of a deal if we wait until the game's over to decide whether we want chicken or beef served for the entrée at the reception."

He smiled, nodding his agreement. Any other woman would be jealous—she would have been jealous. But the most Mallory ever seemed to react with was disappointment. Disappointment because their evening so far hadn't proven to be any different than the majority of others. At best, she only ever received a third of his attention, but never more. Never as much as all of it, because he always kept some portion of it reserved for the face he still spent too much of his time searching for.

"It wasn't her, you know." She dropped her hand away from his chest. "The brunette at the coffee shop. I saw her, too."

His expression tightened, his eyes narrowing. "I didn't think it was her."

"Maybe not, but you hoped it was." Mallory sighed weightily, making it clear she wasn't buying into his halfhearted attempt at a lie.

"Why don't we finish talking about the reception?" Hunter suggested. "Beef sounds good to me. What do you think about beef? Maybe, uh...what's it you like? Prime Rib?"

It had been just over two years that Mallory had been co-existing with Hunter's divided attention, wandering eye and hopefulness that bordered on delusional. Their relationship had originally begun out of a simple need—the need for truth. They'd both been forced on a quest in search of it, but instead of finding what they needed, they found each other. They were similar; two lonely people who needed to share their grief with someone who could understand their pains and questions. Mallory had lost her husband, and Hunter lost everything that mattered most to him. And in the end, the only truth that either of them stumbled across was that, of the two of them, Mallory was the luckier, because she'd been given closure.

In the years that followed the failed Velasquez mission, their need for each other became stronger, and without planning or before either realized it, it became too big to walk away from. Both unfairly and unintentionally, though, Hunter forced Mallory into a competition with Dee Dee's memory from the second she accepted his invitation for a first date. He shared stories about Dee Dee like she was still a relevant part of his life, lived in her house, and made love in her bed. It was unfair, he knew. But it was the best he could do, and thankfully, Mallory seemed to understand that about him.

"Prime Rib? Really?" She scrunched her nose. "So, that's a no for Chicken Marsala?"

"It's a…" He frowned, shaking his head. "Why don't you decide?"

She accepted his indecision silently, snuggling in beneath his arm. "There's something else," she said, her tone hesitant. "Um. We need to talk about…you know. Houses. Specifically, this one." She took in a breath, Hunter tensing noticeably beside her. "Look, Rick. I've never pushed this with you, but. Come on. It's time, don't you think? This house, it's too small for us. I mean, what if we decide to have kids?"

He couldn't argue that the house on Mesden Drive was practically too small for the two of them, and if a couple of kids were thrown into the mix, they would end up on top of each other. But knowing that didn't make letting go any easier. In the beginning, the house—Dee Dee's house—had been a source of comfort, albeit a twisted one. But then, as time inched by, he kept it for a different reason, the same reason that Dee Dee's parents refused to move from their house, and Charlie refused to move from his. They were familiar—familiar to Dee Dee. And they were the places she would go first. They were the only places she would think to go, and the hope that one day she would end up at one of their doors stopped them all from moving on.

"You can't hold onto it forever," Mallory lectured, understanding in her voice.

"I like this house. I don't want to sell it."

"Be realistic. What, do you honestly believe you'll wake up one morning to find Dee Dee knocking on the door?" Mallory shook her head, her brows dipping critically. "I wish it would happen, you know? I do. But it's not going to." She slid sideways, facing him. "I wish even more that I could tell you what happened to her, that I could give you that answer, that…peace of mind. But even without all the little answers, you still know the big one. Oscar Velasquez killed her, just like he killed Jordan, and hanging onto her house—her things—can't change that. All of this stuff has just stopped you from accepting it. And after six years, don't you think it's time to finally accept that she's gone?"

"I don't know what I need to accept," he grumbled, hating that their conversation had veered down such a familiar and uncomfortable path. "Because I don't know for sure what happened."

"Yes, you do. We all do." She took one of his hand in both of hers, tugging his arm onto her lap. "I wish things had turned out differently. But this is what we got. It ended exactly the way we didn't want it to, and pretending anything different isn't healthy. Not for you, and not for our relationship."

He slumped further, ignoring the stare being directed at him and focusing on the television set, instead. "Let's talk about the wedding, huh? About the Chicken—"

"Why? The three of us can't get married, you know. It's a husband and wife, not a husband, wife, and memory of an old partner."

He shot a sideways glance at her, frowning. "Just because we're getting married doesn't mean I have to give up on Dee Dee. Not until I know for sure—"

"Until you know, right," Mallory muttered through a roll of her eyes. "There was a telephone call this morning while you were in the shower." She nodded as he looked her, her expression drawn. "It was Riley Porter. I remember him; he was one of the agents that worked on the Velasquez case. He said he was confirming some meeting for tomorrow?" Her brows arched tautly, conveying her irritation. "There's only one thing you have to talk to him about."

He exhaled heavily, Mallory loosening her grip on his hand. "Hey, look. He called me, I didn't call him."

"This time," Mallory returned. "I know, all right? I know how often you call Riley Porter, how often you—"

"There are still sightings. Tips still come in."

"And in six years, not a single one of those tips has panned out."

"Yeah, well—"

"Yeah? Well?" She flopped back against the sofa back, dropping his hand and twisting her arms across her chest. "You know, when we first met, I was cheering you on. You know I was. Every trip you took to Colombia, or Miami, or Mexico, every lead you chased after, I thought it was the right thing for you to do. But now, I mean. Come on. Can't you agree it's gone on too long? You've already made, what, five trips to Colombia, double that many to Mexico, and I've lost track of how many times you've gone to Florida. And you still haven't found her. You've never found her in St. Maarten or Brazil, either. You haven't found her because she isn't there." She tapped the tips of her manicured nails against her forearms, sighing. "I don't like ultimatums, you know that. But I've got to tell you, I can't keep living like this. You're practically broke, and each time you come back from one of these trips empty handed it takes that much longer for me to get you back. So. I don't know. Maybe you're not ready to get married."

Hunter peeked at her; it was all he could manage. Because he didn't want her to see that he was more irritated than frightened by her first-ever-actually-spoken ultimatum. There had been a hand full insinuated over the years, said through a glare, or a couple days of her ignoring his phone calls, or an evening spent with him on the receiving end of her silence. But she'd never actually put one out there. Made it too damned blatant for there to be any room for misunderstanding. And all she was doing was sticking him between a rock and a hard spot. As annoying as both her implied and outright ultimatums could be, he couldn't imagine trying to go on without her. Over the years, she'd become his touchstone, maybe even his everything. And he needed her. He needed her just as much as he needed to continue to believe that, one day, Dee Dee would come home. He just wished that Mallory and his belief could somehow learn to co-exist harmoniously.

"Well?"

He shook his head, his frown deepening. "Let's not get into this right now."

"Then when?" she pushed. "After this meeting with Riley Porter? Or when, maybe after your next trip to Colombia? Or no, I know. How about after the trip after that trip?" She glared, not intimidated by his glare in response. "Why don't you tell me when you think I'll actually be more important to you than Dee Dee is?"

"You're not playing fair."

"Neither are you."

"I'm playing the only way I know how," he muttered, copying her closed-off stance and folding his arms across his chest. "Look it. Why don't we forget about all this for tonight? We'll finish watching the game, then I'll take you out to dinner. How about steaks? Sound good?" He backed his temporary solution with a grin, his smile widening fleetingly as she reciprocated with a hesitant smile of her own. "And after all that, we'll find some boring, old movie to watch on TV."

"The steak dinner I'll take you up on, but I don't like old movies. You know that."

He nodded, silently berating himself for once again pushing Dee Dee's interests onto Mallory. She didn't like old movies, she didn't care much for the new ones, either. She was more of a sports' fan. She liked hardcore rock music versus the old fashioned rock 'n roll Hunter preferred, and would rather spend an evening out dancing than curled up at home in front of the television or with her nose buried in a book. Their differences separated them, if only slightly. But Hunter chalked it up to their twelve-year age difference. He'd just made the transition into his fifties, had his prime behind him, some said. But Mallory was finishing up her thirties; she was just a few years younger than Dee Dee.

Or she should be a few years younger than Dee Dee. _Should be_.

"Okay, fine," Mallory said, rousing him from his thoughts with a tug on his hand. "You go change, then we'll run by my house so I can." She smiled fleetingly, with a hint of flirting but even more retribution. "And dress nice—suit and tie, the whole nine yards. It's not going to be a cheap evening for you, buddy. You owe me."

He climbed off the sofa to the background resonance of her laughter. Somewhere nice, he could do that for her. A nice dinner complimented by the best bottle of wine the restaurant had to offer, and one hundred percent of his attention versus the seventy-five percent or less that she generally got from him.

He owed her that much.

And he knew just the place to make payment in full. The little place on Melrose, what was it called—The Golden something-or-other? Oyster? Pyramid? He didn't remember for sure, but he did remember it—the ambience, the food. The company.

It had been Dee Dee's favorite place.

**xxx**

The click of the deadbolt didn't startle her anymore.

Once, it had. What felt like a lifetime ago. But anymore, she rarely even noticed it, and she'd stopped listening for it. What was the point? Nothing good ever came through the door, anyway.

The door glided open almost silently. Dee Dee sat nestled in the corner of the sofa. In front of her the television played and behind her the curtains billowed and danced in the breeze that rolled between the bars on the outside of her raised window. The day was warm and she'd dressed for it, comfortable in a pair of linen shorts and a tank top, with her hair swept up and held in place by a pearl-studded clip.

"Ma'am, please. Don't scream, okay? You don't need to be afraid."

Her gaze shot up instantly, the unfamiliar voice echoing in her ears like it'd come through a Megaphone. Frozen in place, she stared down the man across the room, watching as he stepped further inside and pushed the door halfway closed behind him. No one came into her room, ever. Other than Marcus and Isabel, Elian didn't allow it. He didn't even like anyone to speak to her. She spent the majority of her time alone, and she was used to it. Most of the time, she even preferred it.

"I won't hurt you, ma'am, I promise. I just need to talk to you, ask you some questions."

Dee Dee swallowed, her voice lost. She knew the faces of most of Elian's employees, but she didn't remember seeing the man before. Not in the house or on the grounds. He was tall and thin, not bony but not muscular. His hair was a dirty shade of blonde and cut short, and when he smiled, she noticed that one upper, front tooth slanted inward and overlapped the other one a bit. Shuffling forward a hesitant step, he pushed his hands out in front of him, like she'd suddenly become hysterical and he was trying to calm her down. Which she found odd, considering she hadn't moved or made a sound since he walked in.

"I need to know, ma'am, are you Dee Dee? Dee Dee McCall?"

Something shot through her, some type of current. It was hard and fast and made her shudder. _Dee Dee McCall_. No one had spoken her full name in she couldn't remember how long. She hadn't even said it herself.

"Please, ma'am. I really need to know. Are you Dee Dee McCall?"

Her eyes narrowed, but she never released the stranger's stare. There was something different about him, something less edgy than she generally found in Elian's other men. It was in his eyes, she decided. They stared softly, with empathy versus indifference. She wasn't invisible to him; he actually saw her. And he was studying her just as intently as she was him. Like he was looking for something specific, something familiar, something he needed to remember and couldn't risk forgetting.

"You can talk to me, it's safe. I promise, whatever you say will be kept between us. Nobody else will know."

He wanted her to trust him? She almost laughed, but instead buried the sound alongside her voice. Maybe he'd been sent by Elian to test her. She wasn't supposed to talk to anyone, and he wanted to make sure that she wouldn't. Rules were to be followed, not ignored. Never ignored.

"Okay, all right." He sighed, running a hand over the top of his thinning hair. Flashing a tight smile, he reached into the breast pocket of his jacket and retrieved something small, black. "I get it, okay? You're scared. But with all due respect, I have my orders."

There was a flash, bright and unexpected. Dee Dee jumped to her feet and staggered backwards, stars spotting her vision as a second flash sparked. She raised her hands in front of her face, her back popping against the wall and stopping her. Spinning around, she slammed her eyes closed. A shiver shot through her, almost dropping her to her knees, and she flattened her palms on the wall to steady herself.

"Pictures, ma'am, that's all," the stranger said quickly, lifting the small camera into view. "I'm sorry, I am. It's just. There're some people who need to get a look at you."

She glanced over her shoulder, seeing him slip the camera back into his pocket. _Pictures. People needed to get a look at her. Her?_ Dee Dee exhaled shakily, her legs still unreliable supports beneath her. She stared at the stranger, wide-eyed, confused. Afraid. Elian had threatened it before, to send her away, get rid of her once and for all. Damn it. She'd been stupid to talk back to him earlier, to argue with him. Why did she always have to push him? Elian was right—she was stubborn. Too stubborn for his patience and her own good.

"I didn't mean to frighten you," he said, his hands raised again in surrender. "Just following orders, that's it. I'll, uh. I'll…" He shrugged a shoulder toward the door. "I'll go. But if you don't mind, could we keep this just between us? It's important for both of us that no one else finds out I was here."

She turned a little as he stepped up to the door, and turned fully as Marcus stepped into the room. He gave her a nod and then motioned at the door, sending the stranger into the hallway.

"He wasn't here," Marcus said. "Got it?"

"Who is he? Why'd he…he, uh. He took—"

"No, he didn't. He didn't do anything, because he was never here."

She studied him, tried to read him. In a lot of ways, Marcus had always been her biggest source of confusion. One day he would completely ignore her, the next he would not only talk to her, but listen while she talked. He was a friend, or at least she liked to think he was—although she thought it only cautiously. Because for as much as she liked to think that she could trust him, she knew that she couldn't even more. At the end of the day, he reported to Elian. And he'd made it clear to her early on that was one loyalty he wasn't brave enough to turn his back on.

Not for any reason. Including her.

"You hear me? Understand?" He nodded, encouraging her to agree.

"But—"

"Make this one time you just take what you're told and go with it. Okay?"

She hesitated, before nodding her agreement. She didn't always trust Marcus, but she never trusted Elian. And if she had to choose one, it made sense, didn't it, to pick the one that gave honesty the occasional chance versus the one that was inherently deceitful?

"Good." Marcus nodded with her, firmly. "That's good. Just don't forget it, though. Okay? Don't forget."

"I won't," she promised, as he sidestepped toward the door. "But, who is he? Why'd he—"

"You don't need to know," Marcus interrupted, stepping over the threshold into the hallway. "It's better if you don't know. A lot better for all of us."


	8. Chapter 8

**EIGHT**

"It's been a while."

"A while, yeah," Hunter responded with a gruff laugh. "I guess that is what you call six years and twenty-seven days—a while." He glanced around the nearly empty bar, not really taking notice of any faces in particular but letting them blur into a single haze of insignificance. Pulling a chair away from the table, he sat down heavily, the base of the structure creaking under his weight.

"Twenty-seven days…" Riley Porter repeated, sitting down on the opposite side of the table from a stone-faced Hunter. "Do you keep track of the hours and minutes, too?"

"Do you have a reason for this meeting?" Hunter countered, glancing around the room again. "You wanted to buy me a beer as a peace offering, Porter, I would've appreciated you doing it someplace the Health Department hasn't threatened to shut down."

"Peace offering, right," Porter responded, a hint of remorse—of agreement—filtering into his voice. He nodded, propping his arms on the scuffed tabletop. "Trust me, Hunter, as much as I wish a watered down beer in some hole in the wall could make up for things, it won't tip the scale even a little bit."

Hunter straightened, his brows dipping. Granted, he'd never taken the time to get to know Riley Porter on a personal level, he'd never wanted to waste the time getting to know him. But he'd learned enough about the arrogant son of a bitch to know that humility wasn't a character trait he possessed. After the Feds slammed the proverbial door closed on Dee Dee's case—locking him and everyone else at Parker Center out—Porter and his son of a bitch sidekick, Gideon Stanton, had become nothing more than bad memories. There were never any calls to Charlie or anyone else, no visits, no information, and if any of them tried to contact the FBI just to get even an ounce of hope back, they were met by voicemails and clueless secretaries offering empty apologies for some stuffed suit's unavailability.

"What's that mean?" he asked, his suspicion skyrocketing as Porter's gaze dropped. "Why'd you want to meet? It's been six years—"

"And twenty-seven days," Porter cut in, finally making eye contact. "And no matter what you think, I've never given up on Dee Dee's case. Maybe the FBI gave up, but I've kept working it behind the scenes, on my own time. I've wanted answers as much as you have."

"So, that's what this is about? You want a pat on the back, is that it?"

"No. All I want is your guarantee that you'll keep your mouth shut. If anyone finds out I'm talking to you, a lot of people could end up suffering because of it."

Hunter's eyes narrowed, suspicion still darkening them. Propping his elbows on the tabletop, he dropped his chin down onto his fisted, right hand. Something was going on, he could feel it, sense it. Maybe he'd always preferred to view Riley Porter as his enemy, but he knew Porter had never thought of Dee Dee as his. Throughout the first weeks she'd been missing, when Stanton was trying to bully them into backing off, Hunter always perceived something other than the typical FBI arrogance in Porter. It still didn't make him like the jackass, but he could tell that Porter was genuinely concerned. And when Stanton told them that their only choice was to give up and move on, Hunter saw the idleness take hold of Porter just as fully as he'd felt it in himself.

"Do I have your word?" Porter asked, an eyebrow cocked.

Hunter stared, unblinking, for a second longer, before giving his promise through a nod of his head.

"Good," Porter responded and sneaked a glance around the room. Studying each unfamiliar face for a second before moving to the next, and in between glancing toward the glass-paned door. Finally, he leaned in closer, his head and shoulders coming to a stop halfway across the table. "Look. Thinking back, I don't know what happened. With Dee Dee's case, the task force assigned to work it…" He sighed. "I remember thinking then that things weren't exactly staying with procedure. But I was new to the unit and still trying to learn the ropes. Every director handles things differently, and we'd just gotten a new one—Anthony Corbin. He was a good guy then, still is now, but back at that time he didn't seem too sure of himself. He gave a lot of the control to Gideon Stanton, so I thought it was best if I sat back a little and let Corbin and Stanton handle things their way. I mean, the way I saw it, I wasn't in a position to argue with their methods."

"What're you saying?" Hunter asked. "You think Stanton screwed up the investigation?"

"He worked it hard," Porter admitted, glancing to his right as a potbellied man staggered away from the bar and headed across the room toward a door marked _Hombres_. "Put in what seemed to be more than the right amount of hours, you know? But there was always this secretiveness, even with the task force. I got the impression he was purposely holding back information."

"Why would he keep information from his own team?"

Porter shook his head. "I've always chalked it up to being cautious. I mean, the FBI had been trying to get their hands on John Diego Velasquez for a lot of years, so Stanton wanted to play it careful, make sure there weren't any mistakes."

"Yeah? And what about the case against his son?" Hunter groused. "Oscar was the one everyone thought was good for Dee Dee's disappearance and Trask's murder."

Porter nodded once, hesitantly. "That's where things get confusing," he said, taking in a breath as Hunter silently questioned him through an impatient glare. "The house in Malibu where we found Dee Dee's clothes…the DNA… I saw the DNA report myself, Hunter. The blood…brain matter…it was all a match, there wasn't any question. And I guess at that point, there wasn't any hope that she was still alive."

Hunter froze, his lungs deflating. _At that point_… The day Stanton pranced into the squad room for the last time and sanctimoniously shoved the DNA results in Charlie's face had been the unmistakable point when hope died completely—right alongside Dee Dee. It became case closed, end of discussion. No one cared about finding a body, that would require too much manpower, cost too much money that the FBI didn't see a corpse as being worth spending it on. Hands had been tossed up in the air with resignation, insincere condolences had been spouted as effortlessly as one stranger said "Good morning" to another, and then everyone had been expected to start moving forward again, to move on.

Like Dee Dee never existed at all, like her death didn't matter.

"At that point?" he finally managed to croak.

Porter nodded again, faintly. "After Dee Dee's case was officially closed, I kept digging. I guess I…I wanted…" He shrugged a shoulder, once again finding a reprieve from the intense stare across the table by dropping his. "I wanted to find her body, to bring her home. I felt we owed her at least that much."

Hunter chomped down on the corner of his lip, gnawing. Porter was screwing with his entire belief system. He'd spent the past six years cursing the son of a bitch and taking every opportunity to blemish his seemingly pristine reputation. He was a jackass, uncaring and too full of himself and the FBI's damned rigidity to be able to feel even a fraction of compassion for anyone else. It was what Hunter had chosen to believe, what he'd felt justified in believing. It was what he had put every ounce of his energy into trying to force everyone else to believe for the past six years and twenty-seven days.

"The one thing we do know about Oscar Velasquez," Porter continued, his voice hushed, cautious, "is he's as arrogant as his father ever was. He believes he's untouchable, and that's how he's always handled his business affairs and lived his life. And knowing how arrogant he is, he'd never let the murder of a cop and DEA agent send him underground for good." He spiked a brow, frowning. "But that's exactly what's happened. When Dee Dee disappeared, so did Oscar. In over six years, there hasn't been a sighting of him, his name hasn't been linked to any investigations, a rumor about him hasn't even surfaced."

"So, he's good at playing Hide and Seek," Hunter returned. "That's not news. His father managed to evade the FBI for how long? Why should it be a surprise that his son—"

"Hunter. I think Dee Dee's alive."

**xxx**

To the untrained eye, he was an attractive man, handsome by most definitions. His eyes were brown, soft in color and deep set, and when he was at his most relaxed, a tinge of warmth was visible in them. His features were strong, chiseled, accentuated by an array of wrinkles around his eyes and mouth that added a touch of ruggedness to his appearance. And he took care of himself; nearing fifty, he was still in better shape than most of the men half his age that worked for him.

Dee Dee felt her cheeks heat, as Elian glanced up and found her staring. She smiled, small and noticeably strained, and poked her fork into the scoop of untouched rice on her plate. In front of her, tapers burned on either side of a crystal vase, an arrangement of lilies perfuming the air, and Pavarotti's voice seeped out of a speaker system, smooth and relaxing.

"Is something wrong with your dinner?"

Dee Dee laid her fork down on the edge of her plate, answering first with a shake of her head. She reached for her glass of wine, taking hold of the thin stem but leaving the goblet where it sat. "It's fine. I'm just not hungry. My stomach, it's, uh. It's…been upset, bothering me."

He eyed her suspiciously, with a brow cocked and his lips pursed. She knew the look—he was gauging her, deciding whether or not he believed her. And she hoped he would, because all things considered, she hadn't really lied. Her stomach was in knots; it had been since the stranger and his damned, instamatic camera barged into her room, overstaying a welcome that was never given to begin with.

"Should I call the doctor? Have him make a visit?"

"I'll be fine. It's probably just a bug, nothing to worry about." _Nothing to worry about_. She hoped she wasn't lying to either of them. Since the stranger had left her room and Marcus had sworn her to secrecy about him being there, she'd looked for him but hadn't seen him again—not in the house or on the grounds. It was like he'd disappeared as unexplainably as he'd appeared. "I haven't had the chance to ask," she continued. "Your dinner the other night, did everything go like you wanted?"

"Why would you ask about my business?" Elian responded, reclining in the straight-back chair. He dragged his wine glass off the table, watching her over the top rim as he took a drink.

Dee Dee shrugged, putting all of her effort into reacting nonchalantly. "No reason," she answered, sliding her glass closer but still not picking it up. "Just making conversation."

"Conversation about my business?" he prodded. "What could we possibly have to talk about as far as it's concerned? What could you understand about it?" He chuckled lowly, mocking her. "Why don't we talk about something more on your level? We have the trip to Colombia coming up. Should I have some clothes brought to the house for you to try on?"

"I don't need anything new," she answered, the flash of a smile her weak show of appreciation toward his offer. He was generous; she couldn't deny it. Even though the money he spent on her was dirty, he did spend it liberally. And maybe she could enjoy it—maybe, a little—if she didn't know how each depraved dollar was earned.

He took another drink of wine. "There is something I do need to tell you," he said, placing the glass back on the table, beginning to drum his fingers. "This trip, it's not just for vacation purposes. After speaking with some very…trusted…confidants, I've begun to think that possibly it's time to relocate. Permanently."

He watched her, calculating her reaction to his news. She knew he could see her panic, because it was suddenly all she could feel; it was all she could think. _Colombia. Relocate. Permanently_. If he took her out of the country, she would never find her way back. In six years, she hadn't been able to get through a damned, iron fence, so how would she ever conquer an ocean?

"Relocate?" she stammered.

"I think it's best," Elian said, lazily lifting a brow. "We'll return to Santa Maria. It'll be good to put some distance between this country and myself. Besides, my mother, she's old, not well. As her only son, it's my responsibility to make sure she's cared for."

As far as Elian's family went, Isabel was all Dee Dee had met—because she purposely never gave Oscar time in her memories anymore. And Elian's mother she'd only ever heard stories about. Ava Maria Sandoval was old and alone, and Elian worried about her, Dee Dee knew. He talked occasionally about her needing her family close, people she could trust to take care of her, and in every story he told, he made her out to be nothing short of a saint.

"It's necessary," Elian mused, nodding. "To return to Santa Maria."

"You, uh. You think that's best, to…to just…" She shook her head, exhaling shakily. "Your business. You'd be giving up a lot."

Elian leaned into the table, propping an elbow on top. Hesitating, stalling, he gave her panic time to gain a little more momentum. "I don't plan to give up anything," he said, his tone calculated. "We'll relocate, and I'll continue to oversee the business in the same capacity I do now. Marcus has been an invaluable employee. I don't have any doubt that he can run things from here, in my absence."

"But I don't…understand," Dee Dee pushed cautiously. "Is something wrong? Has something happened?"

"Let's just say I've been advised by someone I consider to be a reliable source that it would be to my benefit to…lay low…for a while." He leaned back in the high-back chair and reached into the breast pocket of his shirt, retrieving a pack of cigarettes. Without glancing into the box, he pulled a cigarette out and stuck it between his lips, keeping it steadied while bringing one of the tapers closer and sticking the end into the flame, lighting it. He took in a long, deep drag, making eye contact with Dee Dee as he released the smoke in a thin stream. She coughed and cupped a hand over her mouth, Elian blowing a second puff of smoke in her direction. "You don't seem excited," he said, as she leaned back, out of the path of the pungent cloud.

She waved her hand in front of her face, clearing the air. "I'm just surprised," she admitted. "It's just. You've told me how proud your father was that you were successful here, in this country. Aren't you worried that going back to Colombia might be…detrimental? I mean, leaving the business for someone else to run is risky, right? I know you trust Marcus, but—"

"You know," Elian cut in, leaning forward. He took a final drag off his cigarette, giving the smoldering butt a glance before dropping it into Dee Dee's half-empty wineglass. "If I didn't know better, I might think you're trying to talk me out of this decision."

She took in a breath, her lips fluttering through a tacit response. Their time together had taught her how to read him, to interpret his more-often-than-not doubletalk for the most part. But sometimes she still missed a sign—the tiniest, subtlest clue. It was a game to him. He would purposely try to trip her up—call her out and force her to think on her feet. It amused him, she knew, to make her feel nervous, to have her fear him. "I'm not…no," she disagreed. "I'm just. Like I said, I'm surprised. I've never heard you talk about wanting to go back to Colombia. At least not to stay."

"To _live_," he corrected, his voice stern. "We're going back to live."

Their stares met, locked. It was bad enough to be a captive in her own backyard. But at least there, she was still home, even if in the weakest sense. When she looked hard enough, she could still find old connections to the world she'd once lived in, the world she'd been a part of. And at those times when the loneliness hit a peak, she generally managed to soothe herself by seeking out those little reminders of the past. By reading a newspaper, watching a television show, or just eating a damned peanut butter and jelly sandwich. All of it was a part of her, or each used to be. They reminded her, comforted her, and gave her daydreams power over reality. For a short time, anyway.

"To live," Dee Dee repeated, in a whisper only. "But, uh. What about…citizenship? I'm not, I…I mean—"

He laughed, cutting her off. It had been a stupid thing to bring up, at best. _Citizenship?_ Elian had never had a problem getting her in or out of her own country, let alone anyone else's. The first time he took her abroad, she'd gotten excited—stupidly hopeful. They would get red-flagged; she'd known it. They would be stopped and questioned. After all, even though her passport was forged, it still had her picture on it—Dee Dee McCall's face. So, someone would notice. They would finally notice her, wouldn't they?

But no one did. Not that first trip, or the dozens after it.

Because all anyone ever seemed to see was exactly what Elian told them to see.

"Colombia was my father's first love," Elian answered. "It was his country. Mine, too. And if you're there with me, trust me, no one will question why."

Trust him? Of course she did. She'd never been given any reason not to.

Leaning closer, he placed a hand on her face, rubbing to her ear, then down her jaw line. "You should be ready to leave at a moment's notice, day or night," he said, dropping his hand away from her face and retrieving another cigarette from his pocket.

"But everything's…things are…all right?" she asked warily, unsettled by his overly cool attitude. "There's, um…nothing to, to…be worried about?" She knew Elian to have two moods—irritated and aloof. He wasn't the type to get sentimental; he wasn't even particularly friendly. It was because of his lifestyle, she knew. It was a dangerous one, one that demanded he remain aware and alert at all times, ready to react—to retaliate, if necessary. So, she had to give it to him, even if reluctantly—with all of that tension beating down on him on a daily basis, it wasn't a wonder that he never had time for niceties.

He took in a strong breath through his nose, nodding at their place settings. "I gave Graciela the evening off. You'll need to clean the dishes."

Dee Dee shot a quick glance at the Grandfather clock in the far corner of the room. Arguing was pointless; she understood it. But even understanding it, something inside of her wouldn't let her stop doing it. "I can clean up later," she said. "It's after seven. I told Isabel that I'd be back upstairs in time for—"

"Isabel is fine, more than capable," he interrupted. "Take care of this mess now. You know I don't like the clutter."

Rarely turning her back on an argument—or even on initiating one—didn't mean that she didn't know when to concede. And each year it seemed conceding came quicker and easier than it had the year before. Maybe she was tired, or maybe her defenses had just gotten too worn down. Either way, arguing was done for her own benefit only, to reenergize her spirit once in a while. It was never done with the thought that she might actually walk away the winner, though.

"The dishes, of course," she said, climbing out of her chair. She crumpled her napkin and tossed it into the center of her untouched plate, before picking up the setting and reaching for Elian's. As her fingers grazed the china's edge, he closed his hand around her wrist, stilling her. Both sets of eyes rose, stares meeting.

"Do you think there's something I should be worried about, Dee Dee?" he asked, his voice low and tone flat.

She winced, his grip tightening. "You're hurting me," she whispered. "Please, let go."

"Answer my question. Is there a reason why I should be worried?"

"I don't…know…" He dropped his hold on her and she brought her arm up to her chest, massaging her wrist. "I just asked, because…I don't understand why you want to leave so suddenly, so…quickly."

"And, what? You think I need to explain my reasons to you?"

She hesitated, silently debating the right answer—Elian's—versus the wrong one, which was anyone else's. "No," she finally said. "I don't. I'm sorry."

"Sorry?" he pressed, cocking a brow. "For what?"

Jesus. She hated getting trapped in his fucking Catch 22's. Damned if she did, damned if she didn't was the accurate maxim to explain her life. Because any answer she gave was always the wrong one, and if it wasn't, Elian figured out a way to turn it into exactly that.

"Dee Dee—"

"For questioning you," she answered. Not sincerely but more hopeful—hopeful that Elian's over-inflated ego would convince him that sincerity was exactly what he heard in her voice. "I know you wouldn't consider making this move if your reasons weren't good ones."

"Mm," he mumbled, nodding.

He kept his stare on her as she started gathering the dishes again, stacking his empty plate on top of her full one and then twisting her fingers around the stems of both wine glasses. She stepped away from the table, knowing that he was still watching, feeling his eyes follow her across the room. Hurrying into the kitchen, she let go of the breath she'd been holding, relieved to be alone, even for only a second.

It was odd, actually. Ironic. When she was in her room, the isolation would gnaw at her nerves, the loneliness could become unbearable. And then when she was out and about, under Elian's thumb, getting just a second to herself was all she could think about.

And she hoped one day she would find that middle ground, that place where she would finally feel contented just to be. Even if only momentarily.

**xxx**

He'd sent the potbellied drunk to the floor when he burst into the bathroom, the old man's equilibrium too saturated in alcohol to stand up to the force of Hunter shoving the door into the center of his chest. On a normal day, he would've stopped, helped the guy back to his feet and offered an apology, maybe even bought the guy that final drink that would send him completely into oblivion instead of leaving him hovering on the edge of it. But he hadn't done any of those things; he hadn't been able to. Not with his stomach lodged in the middle of his throat and the world spinning at a faster than normal pace around him.

"You okay?"

Hunter choked out a final dry heave, before running the back of his hand across his lips. With a groan, he righted himself over the yellowed toilet and then took in a breath, sucking on the air with everything in him but still unable to replenish his empty lungs. Slowly, he turned around, his steps inconsistent shuffles. He grimaced as his stare locked onto Porter's, and then pushed the other man out of the stall's doorway with a knock of his shoulder and headed across the room toward a rusted-out sink.

"The hell do you think?" he grumbled, flipping on the faucet and immersing his shaking hands in the stream of water.

"It's a shock, I know," Porter said, as he stepped up to the side of the sink and leaned a shoulder into the wall. Crossing his arms over his chest, he watched and waited as Hunter splashed his pale face with water.

"A shock," Hunter laughed, droplets of water popping off of his lips. "Screw you, Porter." He turned off the faucet and ran a hand down the length of his face, scrubbing his tingling skin. _I think Dee Dee's alive_. Jesus. His mind had taunted him with the same words too many times to count over the past six years, and he'd been waiting damned impatiently to hear someone else say them to him. But impatient or not, he still hadn't been ready for them when they finally had been said. Because if they were coming from Riley Porter, there was a lot more to back them up than intuition. And it scared the hell out of Hunter to think that he'd wasted six years waiting—remaining idle—instead of moving forward like his gut had kept telling him he should be doing.

He backed across the room, stopping when the backs of his shoulders became flush with the cold metal door of the stall. Rubbing a hand over his face again, he sniffed in the stale air. "Tell me what in the hell is going on," he finally demanded.

Porter nodded, straightening and moving away from the wall. "Like I said, since Dee Dee's disappearance, there hasn't been any known activity from Oscar Velasquez. His name doesn't even seem to be connected to the trafficking business anymore—not drugs or girls. He seems to have vanished himself." He shrugged, burying his hands in the front pockets of his trousers. "I don't know if Oscar was behind Dee Dee's disappearance or not, but whatever happened in the beginning, he's not involved in what's going on now."

"Yeah? So, what in the hell is going on now?"

"Elian Sandoval."

Hunter froze, his expression contorting. "Sandoval?" he asked through a shake of his head. "Never heard of him."

"Don't feel bad. Until about nineteen months ago, neither had the FBI," Porter confessed. "That's when he hit our radar. We still don't know much about the guy, other than he was born in Colombia and at some point stepped into Oscar Velasquez's shoes and took over the position of King of the Mountain when it comes to moving both drugs and live bodies into this country."

"You think he took down Velasquez?"

"We don't have any proof to confirm it, but it's the only reasonable explanation. Otherwise, he wouldn't have half of the power he does. Velasquez wouldn't allow it."

Hunter hooked his arms over his chest, shrugging a shoulder. "So, one piece of scum took out another one, so what? What does it have to do with Dee Dee?"

Porter hesitated. He tilted his head toward the closed door, listening for a moment for any sign of movement on the other side of it. "We finally got a man inside Sandoval's operation," he said, his voice lowered cautiously. "Thomas Landry. He's a good agent, been around for a while. About six months ago he infiltrated. Started off working in New York as a mule, moving drugs, but then three weeks ago he got a call from one of Sandoval's right-hand men. The guy told Landry that Sandoval wanted him working at his home base in Miami."

_Miami_. Fucking Florida. Hunter grunted irritably, remembering the different conversations—yelling matches—Charlie and he had both had with Gideon Stanton about how deeply the Feds had dug into Miami's filth for Velasquez. It seemed an obvious place to look, Charlie and he had reasoned, knowing that the Velasquez's had a compound and warehouses there. But every time they brought it up, Stanton snubbed their idea by telling them not to kid themselves into thinking they were in any way qualified to do the FBI's job. After all, they were only mere mortals the smug bastard had attempted to joke. Sure as hell not skilled superheroes like the men who comprised the Federal Bureau of Investigation.

"Landry's been staying in touch as much as possible," Porter continued. "The task force supporting him is small. I've been in charge of it, and the other men on it were carefully selected. Every bit of information we get from Landry is confidential, kept top secret—"

"FBI bullshit," Hunter snapped. "Tell me what this Landry-guy infiltrating Sandoval's operation has to do with Dee Dee." Damn it. His nerves were raw and bleeding, was Porter really too stupid to understand that? He had six years' worth of frustrations built up, and if the secretive son of a bitch didn't start spilling his guts, Hunter would rip him open and pull them out of him piece-by-piece with his bare hands.

"I got a call five days ago," Porter said. "From Landry. Sandoval promoted him again, took him out of the warehouses in Miami and moved him to his private estate in Coral Gables. On his first day there, he was getting a tour of the grounds and he, uh. He saw a…woman. He wasn't able to get too close, but from the look he did get, he said she looked to be around late thirties, early forties, had brown hair—dark." He redistributed his weight, crossing his bulky arms. "Landry was around at the time Dee Dee disappeared, but he wasn't a part of Stanton's task force. He's familiar with the case, though, and he saw all of the same photographs of her that the rest of us saw. It's been six years, but still…he feels pretty, uh. Pretty certain…that…" He shrugged. "Hunter, he thinks this woman could be Dee Dee."

The floor tilted beneath him again, causing Hunter to slam his hands against the metal wall behind him. If he moved at all, even a fraction, the spinning would consume him, suck him in, and he'd never be able to right himself again. He knew it, because he couldn't feel even a fraction of his self-control any longer. "Then we need to go get her," he managed to croak, pins and needles accompanying his voice up his throat.

"We need to know for sure that it is her," Porter countered, taking a cautious step in Hunter's direction. Seeming hesitant, like Hunter's instability wasn't something only he could feel, something only he feared becoming lost in. "Like I said, Landry's only ever seen photographs, and they're photos of Dee Dee before she disappeared. We're working with a six year gap, and we both know people can change a lot in that amount of time."

_People change_. Jesus. People did change, but he never should have. He never should have let the damned stuffed suits that comprised the soulless Federal Bureau of Investigation convince him that giving up was the only real choice any of them had. He'd looked, but not like he should have. Instead, he devoted more of the past six years to mourning Dee Dee versus doing, like his gut had always warned him that he should be.

"Then what?" he whispered, his gaze lowered and tears hidden from Porter. "How do we find out?"

"Landry is trying to get close. He said that she…this woman…is generally watched, one of Sandoval's hired goons tails her most of the time. But Landry is going to try to get close, talk to her. He's going to try to get a picture. If he can, he'll fax it to me so we can make a visual identification."

"Why not just move in now?" Hunter asked quickly. "Why wait? You already know what this Sandoval-guy is about, what he does—"

"He's a big fish in the states, but not the biggest worldwide. We're still learning about him, trying to figure out his connections. I mean, we don't know how this guy even got his power let alone who's backing it."

Hunter glanced up, clearing his cheeks with jerky swipes of his hands. "And if it's her? The FBI can't sit on this, Porter. They can't…_fuck_. It's already been six years."

Porter took another step closer, and another. Stopping in front of a partially hunched-over Hunter, he slid his hand onto his shoulder. "We'll get her out, you have my word." He squeezed gently, encouragingly. "If Landry is right and this woman is Dee Dee, I'll go in myself and get her."

**xxx**

Dee Dee flipped the faucet handle, cutting off the spray of water. Her gaze rose to the four-panel window above the sink, and she stared into the darkness outside. She seemed to spend a lot of her time staring, with her mind drifting. Not to anything in particular, just skimming over memories. Ones that she didn't want to forget, and even more, the ones she wished that she didn't remember.

"Dee Dee?"

Glancing over her shoulder, she found Elian in the kitchen doorway. She forced a smile, just the hint of one, and stepped away from the cabinet, tossing a wadded dishtowel onto the countertop. "I just finished," she said, crossing the room and sliding between Elian and the doorframe. "Think I'll go upstairs." Elian grabbed her wrist as she passed by, bringing her to a stop. She looked at him but didn't attempt to wrench free from his hold, instead she stepped closer, almost against him. He was upset; she could see it in his eyes. What she didn't know, though, was where his anger was directed. And so she decided to play it safe rather than end up sorry. "Are you coming up?" She tried to coerce him with another smile, flattening her free hand over the center of his chest. "We could watch a movie. The one you were talking about the other night? The comedy—"

"I'm not in the mood for a movie," he interrupted brusquely. Loosening his grip, he shoved her arm away from him. "What kind of fool do you take me for? After all this time, you still believe you can outsmart me?" He smiled coldly, lowering his face in front of hers. "You'll never be a match for me. I would've thought you'd learned that by now."

She searched his face—searched for something. A sign, a clue, anything that would give her even a hint as to what she'd done wrong, or hadn't done right, or just had or hadn't done. Because Elian was wrong, she didn't take him for a fool. She existed on pins and needles, for God's sake. Anxious for each new minute to begin, cautiously relieved when it passed calmly.

"Let's go," Elian said, forcing her back into the kitchen. "There's something you should see."

"I don't understand," Dee Dee stammered, falling into step ahead of him as they crossed the room. His hand latched to the small of her back and he pushed her along, his touch strong, forceful. Shoving her into the door, he sent her shoulder-first into the barrier and then stumbling into the dining room. In front of her, in the center of the room, three men formed a circle. Marcus, another man she'd heard called Davie, and a third she thought was named Reuben. Their stares were fixed on her, all as unforgiving as Elian's. Except for Marcus's. Like she'd learned to depend on, she found compassion deep-rooted in his brown eyes.

Hesitantly, Dee Dee took a step forward, away from Elian. Tilting her head to one side, she stared through the collection of brawny legs. In the middle of the circle was a form—a man. Balanced on his knees, hugging his ribs, with blood dripping from his nose.

Her breath stopped.

Hesitantly, she glanced behind her, her timid stare slamming into Elian's heartless one.

He grunted, a smirk forming crookedly. Lifting his index finger into the air, he shook his head. "Before you try to insult me by lying, I know he was in your bedroom, that the two of you were alone. What I want you to tell me is, why?"

"Mr. Sandoval, sir…" the man coughed, his words punctuated by wheezes. "I'm sorry, sir. The bedroom, it was an accident. I promise you, I didn't mean any offense."

"You're sorry, mm-hmm," Elian mumbled, stepping up beside Dee Dee. "Of course you are, because you're not stupid. Are you, Thomas?"

Thomas winced through a small shake of his head. "Well, sir. I like to think that I'm not, but I've got to be honest. Right now, I'm not too sure."

"You're not sure." Elian shrugged offhandedly. "Well, to be honest with you, neither am I."

Thomas ran the back of his shaky hand beneath his nose, smearing the thick blood. "I promise you, this is just a misunderstanding—"

"A misunderstanding?" Elian questioned, shooting a sideways glance at a jittery Dee Dee. "That's what this is—a misunderstanding?"

"Yes, sir," Thomas answered quickly. "That's exactly what I think this…whatever this is…is. It's got to be a misunderstanding. I mean, she, uh…she—"

"Belongs to me," Elian said, his tone low, menacing.

"Yes, sir. Yes, she does. She belongs to you, sir."

Elian reached to Dee Dee, snagging her hand in his larger one. "We agree on that, yes? And yet you felt it was acceptable to go into her bedroom? Without permission, you felt it was appropriate to be with her behind a closed door—alone?" By the hold on her hand, he tugged Dee Dee closer. "Tell me. Why was that? Why were you in her room?"

"Mr. Sandoval, sir…" Thomas laughed nervously. "No, sir—I mean, yes, sir, you're right. I did go into her room. But I swear to you, it was an accident. I, uh. I'd been next door with Marcus. We'd been going over some things—work things, you know? And, uh, and…well, sir, I needed to use the restroom. But I obviously got mixed up, because I ended up in her room instead of…of in, uh—"

"You ended up in her room," Elian repeated musingly. "Mm-hmm. So, if I'm to believe that's what happened, why did you stay? Why'd you close the door? You'd obviously made a mistake, that would've been clear the moment you went into the room. So, why didn't you correct it by leaving immediately?"

"Yes, sir. You're right, sir," Thomas stammered. "That's exactly what I should've done. It's just, uh." He exhaled loudly, hard. "I…scared…her. Startled her, you know, when I barged in? So, I wanted to apologize. And that's all that happened, sir, I promise you. I apologized and then I left.

Dee Dee breathed out shakily, peeking at Elian. Even with only a partial glimpse of his face, she could tell that he wasn't buying Thomas's rambling excuse. In a good mood, Elian was a hard sell, and in a bad one, it was impossible to convince him that the sky was blue. Suspicion was his most prevalent character trait; it was the crux of his psyche. And he saw that as an asset, certainly not a flaw. Which meant he generally used it more often than he didn't.

"You apologized," Elian said, through a slow nod. "To her." He cocked a brow. "This is my home, she's mine. We agree on that. So, tell me, Thomas. Why is it that I'm the only one who finds it odd that you apologized to her instead of me?"

"To, uh…to…to you…" Thomas repeated, his words dragging. "I, uh. Well, sir, I'd say that's because I made another mistake…obviously."

"Obviously, mm-hmm," Elian growled. "Finally, you've said something that we can both believe." He turned slowly, deliberately, facing down Dee Dee. "What do you have to say? And you'd be wise to keep in mind that it's late. I'm not in the mood for games."

Dee Dee nodded, her gaze making a quick shift between Thomas and Marcus, before meeting Elian's hard stare. "He's telling the truth," she responded softly, with a flash of a smile. "What he said, it's what happened."

Elian grumbled under his breath. "And what exactly did he say to you while he was in your room?"

She shook her head. "Nothing, other than…he, uh. He said he was…sorry, that he hoped he hadn't bothered me. Or, uh…or scared me."

"That was it? All he said?"

"That was…" She hesitated, before finishing her lie with a tentative nod.

Elian exhaled, his breath heating her face. Slowly, he reached for her, ignoring her involuntary flinch as he slithered his hand through the side of her hair. Tugging lightly, he caressed her scalp with deceivingly soothing touches. "Think, Dee Dee," he urged. "Did he say anything else? Did he do anything?"

Dee Dee's chest tightened, her breathing becoming shallower, each breath harder to find. If she answered truthfully, there was a chance of saving herself. But if she were stupid enough to keep lying, her fate would be even bleaker than what she instinctively knew the man's would be. In the end, Elian might forgive her indiscretion, but his forgiveness, she knew all too well, was never easy to obtain. It had to be worked for, suffered for.

She glanced at Marcus, only briefly, hearing in her mind the promises he'd demanded from her, hearing her own agreement. Why wasn't he helping either of them, damn it—Thomas or her? Someone had to have let Thomas into her room, and three of them knew who that someone was. But he wasn't speaking up, and she knew that he wouldn't Sympathetic or not, he'd become too preoccupied with saving himself.

"Dee Dee?"

She turned her attention on Elian, her lips fluttering through a tacit response.

Elian balled his hand in her hair, strands tangling in his fingers. "I asked you—"

"He asked my name," she answered shakily. "After he apologized for scaring me, he asked—"

"Your name?" Elian returned, an eyebrow spiking. "And? That was it? He just wanted to know your name?"

"He just…yeah." She nodded weakly. "Yes."

"Hmm. That's odd." He released his hold on his hair. "Because you know what I found earlier? In my office?" He glanced around the room, hesitating, before returning his stare to Dee Dee. "A photograph—of you. It was in my fax machine. Why would a photograph of you be in my fax machine?"

Dee Dee's heart stopped, her stare instantly shooting to Marcus. He stared back stone-faced, empty. Without a hint of emotion that would make her think he would sacrifice himself to save her.

"Look at me," Elian hissed, pulling back Dee Dee's wide-eyed attention. "This son of a bitch, did he take your picture? And for your sake, you'd better tell me the truth. Because so help me, if you try to lie—"

"Yes." She shook her head, hard and fast. "I don't know why. He said it didn't mean anything."

Elian lowered his face in front of hers, his eyes narrowing. "Who the fuck is he, Dee Dee? How do you know him?"

She bowed her head, blocking out both Thomas's anxious stare and Elian's merciless one. "I don't know him. Until he came into my room, I'd never seen him before."

"You don't know him, but when he came into your room, you didn't tell anyone? He asked your name, took your picture, and still, you didn't even alert Marcus?"

"I thought he worked for you. So, I…no. I didn't tell anyone."

"Who is he, Dee Dee?"

"I don't know!" she whimpered, as Elian slid his hand beneath her chin, lifting her head. Their eyes met, hers darkened by tears, his by anger. "I thought he worked for you. That's why I didn't say anything." Elian dropped his touch, continuing to study her, the seconds dragging. She tried to breathe, to keep breathing, to appear at least calm enough to prove that the truth was what she'd said it was. "He came into my room, I didn't invite him in."

Thomas sighed softly, with resignation, and De Dee slammed her eyes closed in search of ignorance. She was sealing his fate, putting the bullet in his brain herself. And, God help her, she wanted to care. She wished she could find at least a shred of her old self still lurking somewhere beneath the scars and devastation and fear that would make her care. Like she had once, a lifetime ago when she'd been someone different, someone stronger.

Someone instead of something owned.

"Dee Dee."

She fought down a swallow and then fought her heavy eyelids. Opening her eyes, she found Elian close, the tips of their noses almost touching, his breaths rolling between her trembling lips.

"I need the truth."

"I'm telling the truth."

"Mm," he grunted with obvious disbelief. Snaking a hand through her hair again, he ran his fingers down the length of the silky strands, glancing at the silent group of men. "Get the bastard up, on his feet."

The men descended on their prey like soulless vultures. Thomas was yanked to his feet, retaliating to the rough treatment with a pained groan. His fear had become palpable, making him seem all too human, Dee Dee sickeningly realized. More human than her own jaded mind had given him credit for being when he'd stood in front of her in her bedroom bathing her in soft words—kind words—and promising not to hurt her. And she'd reacted to him like she'd always been reacted to inside of Elian's world—narrow-mindedly, judgmentally, and distrusting without giving any consideration to trusting.

"Now, let's discuss my concerns," Elian said, his voice eerily calm, even. "You want me to believe that this man came to your room just to ask your name, and after you wouldn't answer him, he decided to take your photograph?" He pursed his lips, shaking his head. "So, my first concern is, if what you're telling me is the truth, how is it that such an unintelligent man could get himself on my payroll? Because if you are the one being truthful, Dee Dee, then there are cracks in this foundation I've laid. I personally make sure to only surround myself with the best and brightest, so where has my system failed?" He took her hand in his and guided her in front of him. Settling his arm across her waist, he pulled her back against him and nuzzled the side of her face with his lips. "Tell me, Dee Dee. I've given you a good life, yes? The comfortable life I promised you?"

Tears blurred her vision, as Elian tightened his hold around her waist. He'd already placed blame, she could hear it in his voice. Her excuses hadn't been accepted, apologies had fallen on deaf ears, and she would be forced, once again, to undergo the daunting process of earning forgiveness. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I should've said something. I should've told you."

"Ah." He touched a finger to the center of her lips, quieting her. "There's my second concern. That after all this time, you still don't trust me. You don't respect me."

She shook her head, disagreeing. "I do trust you," she said. "Of course I respect—"

"Me?" Elian asked, feigning surprise and dipping his chin over the front of her shoulder. He hugged her close, her backside pressed against his front-side. "You respect me? I should believe that?"

She nodded. She needed him to believe it.

"Then you're willing to prove it? That it's true?"

His demand had barely registered when she felt the cool metal brush her hand. Glancing down, as perplexed as surprised, she watched Elian press the revolver against her palm, her fingers inadvertently curving around the fat handle. "Take it," he whispered from behind her, and she tightened her grasp. It was heavy, heavier than she remembered, and she turned her hand slowly, to the right, the left, before dragging her gaze upward to meet Elian's.

"Show me the respect I deserve," Elian said, nodding slowly, encouragingly. "Kill him."

Her hands began to shake. She watched the men step back, away, leaving an ashen face Thomas standing alone. Trapped, his life closer to ending than continuing, he stared back at her, but without anger, without blame. She'd thrown him to the wolves, they both knew it, but still his eyes radiated only kindness. Like he had already forgiven her for betraying him, like he understood it was the only choice she'd had.

"He was disrespectful. He disregarded my rules." Elian's voice was like a knife, sharp, slicing her soul. She rolled her shoulders against his chest, wanting him off of her. But he was steadfast, unmoving, his breath hot against the side of her face as he whispered, "Do it. Shoot him."

She shook her head, sniffling. "I…can't."

"Won't. Isn't that what you mean?"

She shook her head again, weaker than before. "He just asked my name. That was…he didn't…he just…asked…"

His hands came together on either side of her trembling right one, his index finger trapping hers against the trigger. With gentle prompts, he pressed and then released, again and again, whispering each time, "Prove yourself, or suffer with him."

Dee Dee scrunched her eyes closed. Elian remained close, against her, his hand tightening even more around hers, her fingers whitening around the butt of the gun. Prying her eyes open just a fraction, she watched through a haze of tears as Elian pushed her index finger against the trigger again, and then again. In front of her, she could hear Thomas's breaths hitching. He was crying, she thought. Maybe making his final peace, maybe praying for more time, maybe wishing she would end the suspense for all of them and just get it over with. Because there came a time in a few, unlucky lives, she knew—she remembered—when dying stopped being the worst option.

With his left hand, Elian tickled a path up the side of her face. He circled her ear and then wetted it with a kiss, whispering almost seductively, "Do it. Now."

Dee Dee leaned against his larger frame for support. Her hands still shook but his were steady, and she cried out softly as he manipulated her finger again, and then again, applying pressure, whispering to her, kissing her. Closing her eyes, locking in her tears, she whispered a broken, "I'm sorry," that became lost in the echo of the blast.


	9. Chapter 9

**NINE**

_"Hunter. It's Riley Porter."_

His knuckles were white; his fingers having numbed even before he made it to LAX from the tight fists he'd kept his hands balled into.

_"It's going down, Hunter. Tonight. The FBI is moving in on Sandoval."_

It had been a quarter 'til five when Porter's call came in. Hunter had had pasta boiling on the stove, his second bottle of beer was adding one more condensation ring to the surface of the coffee table, and Mallory had been rambling about fabric swatches and which he preferred—roses or lilies? He'd been bare-chested and bare foot, wearing only a pair of old sweat pants and briefs.

_"Sandoval's on to us, someone tipped the son of a bitch off. I got word from Thomas Landry earlier today that he thinks he's been made. I'm already in Miami. We're grouping now, then we'll head to Sandoval's estate."_

He hadn't said anything other than "Hello." He hadn't been able to say anything else. As soon as he heard Porter's voice, his throat closed off. He hadn't been able to get anything up it, nothing down it. So, he'd just listened, with his heart hammering at its chest like it was trying to make an escape and his ears ringing like Porter was screaming at him through a megaphone.

_"We have the bastard locked in our sights. We're going to get him, Hunter. We're going to get him tonight."_

He'd wanted to ask, the question screamed itself so loudly in his brain that for a minute he actually thought that he had asked it—_what about the woman?_ It was all he really cared about knowing, anyway. Screw Elian Sandoval, the Feds could have him. After forty-eight-plus hours waiting for the assumedly competent Special Agent Thomas Landry to fax a picture of the mystery woman he'd found, all Hunter wanted to know was if he'd found the only person he gave a damn about being found.

_"I don't know how many people Sandoval has at the estate, or, uh…or who they are. My source didn't give me that information. But once we catch the bastard, the rest will be easy to track down."_

Hunter had wanted to laugh then. Or maybe he had laughed; it was all too blurred to remember straight. Maybe he'd even cried; he couldn't remember that, either. What he did remember was by that time, he'd been in the bedroom with his sweatpants stripped off and a pair of blue jeans already half on.

_"Stay put, Hunter, and keep this to yourself. I'll call as soon as I know anything."_

By three minutes until five, he'd been dressed and had Charlie's phone line ringing in his ear.

"You want to slow down a little, Hunter? You get us killed before we get there and we won't be any good to…" Charlie pursed his lips, finishing more to himself than his only half-attentive audience, "Anybody."

Hunter shot a sideways glance in the captain's direction, responding with his own mumble. Taking a quick peek at his wristwatch, he frowned. _6:43 PM_. "Porter said he'd call," he grumbled, his gaze back on the road. "Why the hell hasn't he called?"

"Maybe because he's busy heading up a sting operation?" Charlie deadpanned.

"He said they were grouping and then would be on their way to Sandoval's estate when he called the first time," Hunter argued. "He said it wouldn't be long. So, it should've already gone down. If they got Sandoval—"

_No_. No, he wasn't going to think that way. He wouldn't let himself. It was the rule he set into play even before making it off Mesden Drive—there wouldn't be any ifs.

"Jesus…" he whispered, more to himself than his preoccupied passengers. "What if it's her?" His eyes narrowed, intent on the roadway. "What if it isn't?"

"We'll take what comes," Charlie responded thoughtfully. "We won't have any other choice."

Hunter glanced at the captain, noticing for the first time how thoroughly the past six years had aged him. Or maybe it was life as a whole that had done it. After all, one tragedy wasn't any worse than any other, and when you held onto a portion of each, when you had no choice but to let them become a part of you, it didn't take long before you became too full, too burdened, and there was no space left within you for optimism to exist.

"If it…is…" Charlie swallowed hard, audibly. "She's gonna need time. Maybe more time than any of us have left. We need to keep that in mind."

_More time than they had left_. Considering it felt to Hunter like they'd run out of time six years earlier, any extension to nothing would be welcome. He wouldn't take a second of it for granted, either. He would use every one for her, make every one about her, and like he'd become so adept at doing, he would push his own wants and needs out of his head.

Or maybe that was just a self-glorifying way of thinking about it, considering if his time were being spent with her, then his wants and needs would be taken of.

**xxx**

The first gun blast had been loud enough to startle her, the ones that followed had been deafening.

Eventually, they blended together, becoming one, long drone. Unending, it seemed to her locked behind the door with the floor vibrating beneath her and the walls shaking around her.

She'd scrambled to the far side of the bedroom, balling against the wall with her hands flattened over her ears and forehead smashed against the tops of her bent knees. But she couldn't block out the sounds, the blasts, the shouts. All around her, it seemed, footsteps pounded, causing the trinkets along the top of her dresser to jump and the light fixture above her bed to rattle. It was a chandelier, with five arms supporting five dim-wattage bulbs. Peeking up, she watched it sway from side-to-side, shadows dancing across the white ceiling, elongating on one side of the swinging fixture while diminishing on the other side, the process repeating over and over with the thuds of footsteps.

Then just as unexpectedly as the noise began, it ended. Everything fell quiet, deathly still.

And for the first time in six years, she began to pray.

She was halfway through her twenty-sixth recitation of _The Lord's Prayer_ when the knob on the outside of the door began to jiggle. Just softly, tiny squeaks and groans that wouldn't have been noticeable if it hadn't been so damned quiet.

She dropped her head forward when the door was finally opened, after what felt like a lifetime of the lock being fiddled with.

"Ma'am? Ma'am, please, I need you to move your hands to where I can see them. Put them out in front of you."

She didn't move. Not when the first man came through the door a step behind the barrel of his revolver, and not when the second, third or fourth man came through it, either. She remained on the floor, her back pushed up against the wall, legs drawn up in front of her and hands buried and hidden in her lap. With her eyes closed and lips stuttering through _The Lord's Prayer _for the twenty-eighth time.

"Please, ma'am. I need you to show me your hands."

He spoke with a Southern drawl. His voice was kind, but shaky. Like he was just as afraid as she was.

"Ma'am, this is your last warning. Please, show me your hands. I need to see your hands."

Whispering an, "Amen," that only she heard, she lifted her head and hands simultaneously. Her hands trembled as she pushed them out in front of her, her fingers spread apart and palms pointed outward. For a moment, no one said anything. The men stared at her, she stared at them, and around them, the walls continued to vibrate.

Southern Drawl smiled, just small, with more uncertainty than soothing. "Can you get up?" he asked, stepping around the foot of the bed to get a better look at her. "Are you hurt? Do you need help—medical attention?"

What if it was a test? Her mind warned her that it could be a test. Elian had said it in the dining room, with the smell of gunpowder still thick in the air, with her hands still shaking, _"This is your fault, Dee Dee—yours. You brought this on all of us. From here on out, no matter what, keep your mouth shut. Because only God will be able to help you if you fuck up again."_

She stayed quiet. She didn't move, didn't acknowledge any of the suspicious stares being directed solely at her.

She simply closed her eyes and began to repeat _The Lord's Prayer_ again, for the twenty-ninth time.

**xxx**

The buzz of Hunter's cell phone startled the car's occupants, and Hunter's narrowed-eye stare hit the clock on the dashboard simultaneously to his hand locking around the phone. "It's Porter," he announced breathlessly, with his heart pounding in his ears, Charlie's paling face a blur in his peripheral vision, and Mallory's tensed one filling the rearview mirror.

The phone buzzed a third time, and then a fourth. Hunter squeezed it, his fingers tingling and mind reeling. He didn't want to answer it. Damn it. He didn't want to know. Because what he already knew was if life kicked him in the gut one more time, he would no longer be able to find even a semblance of peace in the resignation that had been trying so damned hard to worm its way into his head. He wouldn't be able to trick himself any longer into believing that he was close to reaching a point of acceptance, that maybe it really was okay for him to jump back into step with the rest of the world and start moving forward again.

He would never be able to return to his little portion of hell on Mesden Drive still not knowing where Dee Dee's hell was located.

"Rick. Pull the car over, answer the phone."

He nodded once, shakily, and veered the four-door onto the shoulder of the highway. With a glance in the mirror at Mallory, and receiving an encouraging nod in return, he flipped open the phone and croaked in an unfamiliar voice, "Hunter."

"Hunter, it's Porter."

Hunter choked on a breath, his body beginning to shudder in sync with the soft vibrations of the idling car. _No_. He didn't want to know. He'd said that, hadn't he? He was sure that he had, so why in the hell hadn't anyone listened to him?

"We, uh. The raid…" Porter coughed into the phone, the resonance rough, hoarse. "It's, uh. Over." He cleared his throat, pausing through what felt like an entire lifetime to Hunter, before continuing. "Our source was spot-on. Uh, Sandoval…what we believe is a good number of his men…they were at the Coral Gables estate when we got there. Looked like they were packing up, getting ready to take off. But we…we got there first, before the son of a bitch could make it off his property, much less to an airport."

Hunter nodded, ignoring the wide-eyed stares of his anxious audience of two.

"Sandoval wasn't going down without a fight. We ended up losing three men—three agents. But, uh…but…" He cleared his throat again, silence once again following. "We got him. We have Elian Sandoval in custody."

Porter sounded tired, Hunter noticed, exhausted—drained. But he didn't sound relieved. Hunter didn't hear even a hint of relief in his voice, nothing that leaned even a little toward celebratory. It was flat, empty. And under the weight of its so far unexplained cause, he deflated in the seat.

"Thomas Landry, our man undercover…he's dead. We found him in the dining room of the main house. He'd been…beaten, shot once in the head."

_Damn it, just say it!_ Hunter's frantic mind screamed, although his voice remained stagnant, buried. _No_. No, he didn't want to hear it. He didn't want to know. Not about dead FBI agents, or some smug bastard finally getting knocked off his immoral throne, or an estate in some God forsaken city that he'd never even given enough thought over the past six years to drive through. For the most part, he'd even stopped asking questions—of the FBI, the DEA, his own colleagues. And he'd stopped asking because he'd finally stopped wanting answers. In some ways, he found peace with ignorance, maybe even a little comfort in it, too. Not knowing any particulars made it easier to actually dream at night instead of fight his way through nightmares. It made his stomach stop rolling long enough for him to actually be able to eat, and let his brain shut down enough that he could pay attention, be part of conversations, and appear to the rest of the world like he wasn't thinking about Dee Dee every second of every miserable day.

"Hunter—"

"No," he hissed, with a sense of urgency, of desperation.

Obligingly, Porter let another second of silence pass between them, before beginning softly, cautiously, "Hunter. At the estate, in a…in an upstairs…a bedroom—"

"No!" Hunter snapped, his voice a growl. He slammed a fist against the steering wheel, eliciting a surprised gasp from Mallory in the backseat. "Damn it, Porter! I don't—"

"We found her. We have Dee Dee."

Hunter fumbled with the doorknob and pushed open the door, leaning his head and shoulders out of the car. His stomach heaved and he scrunched his eyes closed, tears leaking out of their edges. But he didn't lose his grasp on the telephone, what suddenly felt like his only lifeline.

"I walked her out of the house myself," Porter continued, "rode with her in the car to the Federal Building. I'd bet my life that it's her."

Hunter didn't risk another glance at either Charlie or Mallory. Even with Porter's voice a few, tired notches lower than normal, he knew they could hear both sides of the conversation. Subtly, Charlie shifted in the seat and turned his face toward the rolled up, passenger's side window, his breaths becoming shallow gushes that fogged the glass. Clearing his throat, Hunter righted himself in the seat, a sting hitting the backs of his eyes, causing his vision to blur.

"She hasn't said anything," Porter continued. "So far, she won't talk. But physically…physically, she looks to be…like she's, you know…okay. Pretty good."

_Physically she looked to be okay, maybe even pretty good._ Hunter knew he should see that as a plus, some kind of fucking bonus, maybe even a blessing in disguise. And if he was some ignorant civilian, he just might see it that way. But experience had shown him too many times that it was the scars that couldn't be seen that were more harmful than those that could be seen. Flesh wounds healed, they faded or disappeared altogether. But scars that formed in the mind stayed forever. Festering, staying infected, rotting a once healthy mind from the inside out.

"We've been in Miami, at the Federal Building, all night—"

"I'm in town."

"You're— The hell? Didn't I tell you to stay put?"

Hunter dragged his hand down his face, grimacing. "I caught the first flight out. I had to."

Porter sighed, with obvious impatience. "You know what, it's a zoo down here. Agents from all over the country have flown in. Sandoval has been on the Ten Most Wanted list for almost two years, and pretty much every branch of the Bureau has some type of investment in him. They want him, and they've all shown up in Miami to get a piece of him."

_Don't say it, you son of a bitch_, Hunter silently warned. _Don't even insinuate it_. Porter was getting ready to shut him out, Hunter could feel it; he could tell just by the way Porter had started breathing over the phone—sharp and fast, his breaths spaced out. If Porter thought he was going to pull rank this time, Hunter wouldn't hesitate to tell him how wrong he was. Or show him—he'd rather show him. For six years he'd been dreaming about using his knuckles to rearrange both Porter's and Stanton's smug as hell faces. The first thing he'd do was knock their noses to the tops of their over inflated heads, that way they wouldn't risk getting cricks in their necks from keeping them stuck up in the air.

"Look, I'm just saying—"

"Well, just don't," Hunter warned. "Don't say anything." He sneaked a glance down the length of the seat, catching Charlie's reflection in the window.

Swiping at the undersides of his eyes, the captain turned back toward Hunter. Sternness constricted his face and the wrinkles that time had worn into his skin seemed to have deepened and become more defined. "Tell the son of a bitch to go to hell," he growled with the same intensity Hunter felt rumbling in his chest. "We have more right than any of them to be at that building, and that's exactly where we're going to be." He nodded once, stiffly. "We let them force us to step down once, and that was something we never should've let them do. So, this time they can shove their orders. We aren't playing by their rules any more, and we damn sure aren't going to force Dee Dee to play by them any more, either."

**xxx**

He'd acted like he'd known her, and even more like she should have known him.

_"Ms. McCall? Dee Dee? I'm Agent Porter—Riley Porter." _

He'd smiled when he said her name. Big and wide, excited, like she was the last item he needed to find to come in first place in a scavenger hunt.

_"Ms. McCall, I need you to come with me. We're going to take a ride down to the Federal Building in Miami. Okay, that all right with you? I hope so, because there sure is a lot we need to talk about."_

He'd held his hand out for her to take, and she'd noticed that his was shaking as badly as hers. _Riley Porter_. She couldn't remember if she had ever known him. Early on, she learned not to let the past overlap with the present. It was too hard, too painful, because back then she found herself hoping all too often that, somehow, it would be the past instead of the present that would become her future.

She hadn't taken hold of his hand.

_"Ms. McCall? Ms. McCall, are you injured? Do you need help—"_

He'd reached for her and she'd shoved her arms out between them to stop him. If she didn't talk to anyone, if she didn't forget who and what she was—that she could only ever belong in the present, never again in the past—then no one else would get hurt. And that was all that mattered to her—everyone else. Because she'd stopped worrying about herself too long ago to remember exactly when, anymore.

Dee Dee lifted her head off the tabletop, scrubbing a hand over her forehead. The air in the room was cool, keeping her skin coated in goose bumps. But still, for as cold as she felt, she couldn't stop sweating. The fluorescent lights that lined the ceiling were bright, too bright, and trapped in their harsh spotlights she felt exposed, on display, like a sideshow attraction. One more freak in Elian's circus.

They thought she was stupid—either that or too far removed from the past to remember anything about it. Sighing, she swiped a clump of hair over her shoulder as her gaze rose and targeted the framed mirror across the room. _Two-way mirror_. Christ. She wasn't stupid or too far removed. She knew they were out there, watching her, staying hidden while they discussed and dissected her. They wanted to talk to her, it was what Riley Porter told her, and she needed to talk to Elian. She needed to know if she was allowed to talk to anyone else, and if she was, what exactly she was supposed to say.

When she had been walked out of the house, all she'd seen were people in blue jackets. All dressed alike, with FBI printed across their backs. None of them smiled at her, although every one of them stared at her. Like they wanted to say something to her, like there was something they expected her to say to them. But what were they expecting from her? Thank you, was that it? Maybe, Thank God? Did they expect her to fall down at their feet in gratitude for them barging their way into something they had no business barging into?

_Her life_. The only life she had.

And damn them, they didn't have any right to take it away from her.

She startled as the door began to shake, her stare immediately targeting the knob. It rolled and twisted, transfixing her. Momentarily tilting her thoughts away from her initial fears of why the door was opening, who was coming through it, and the demands that would be made of her once they came inside.

"Thought maybe you could use some coffee."

_Coffee_. It smelled divine. That was the only word Dee Dee could come up with to describe the aroma that accompanied the heavyset woman into the room. Her mouth started watering even before the lidded, Styrofoam cup was placed in front of her. But she didn't reach for it; she didn't react to the woman who offered it.

"Go ahead," the woman said, nodding at the cup.

Dee Dee pulled her stare away from the steaming cup. She scooted backwards, leaning stiffly into the unforgiving back of the chair and knotting her hands together in her lap. Timidly, she shifted her gaze again, taking in the newest stranger's deceptively friendly face. She was smiling, not as ridiculously wide as Riley Porter had smiled at her, but with a hint of excitement and that damned façade of friendliness. Her frame was heavy, supporting at least sixty extra pounds, and she was dressed sloppily in dark blue slacks and a white blouse that had come untucked from one side of her waistband. Her dark hair was short, not even touching her broad shoulders and peppered with gray at the temples and throughout the bangs, and rectangular-shaped, maroon-rimmed glasses were balanced halfway down her nose.

"Special Agent Lydia Ortiz," she announced, still with a smile. "Federal Bureau of Investigation." She cocked a brow and stared over the tops of her glasses, peeking around the corner of the table as she gave Dee Dee a once over from head to toe. "I have to say, its one hell of a pleasure to be able meet you face-to-face, Ms. McCall."

_Ms. McCall_. There it was again, for the umpteenth time in a short amount of time. Associating her with that name, with that piece of her past, only proved everyone else's ignorance. Because they believed it was who she still was, maybe even who she still wanted to be.

"So." The woman pulled a chair away from the table, plopping down with a grunt. "From what I hear, you've had quite a night. Do you have any questions about what's happened so far, anything you want to ask me?"

_Screw you_, Dee Dee's narrowed eyes screamed, and loud enough, she hoped, for every bastard hiding on the other side of the two-way mirror to interpret. Not just the overweight, still annoyingly smiling stranger in front of her.

Lydia pursed her lips, mumbling a throaty, "Mm-hmm," as she slapped a closed, manila file folder down on the tabletop. With a flit of her eyes she led Dee Dee's fiery gaze to it, and shrugged a shoulder as she flipped it open. Inside, on top of the stapled-together papers, was a photograph. Five-by-seven, color, dating back to the beginning of time it felt like to Dee Dee, as she studied the subject's face. It was a standard photograph, a head and shoulders shot. The woman's hair touched the tops of her shoulders, the sides hooked behind her ears and bangs peeking out beneath the brim of the stiff-looking, dark blue cap. On the front of her shirt was a gold badge, and in her eyes, Dee Dee noticed, was a look of purpose. Strong enough that it reached her smile and eased away any traces of strain from her face.

"You can stick with this role of deaf-mute for as long as you want, hon," Lydia said, her stare once again locked with Dee Dee's. "You're going to find out quick enough that it won't intimidate me." She tapped a fingertip in the center of the picture. "This is Sergeant Dee Dee McCall. She disappeared six years and some odd change ago, and what we know for sure is that she was held for a period of time at a house in Malibu, California, that was owned by John Diego Velasquez. But what happened after that is where the mystery begins. Because, you see, DNA was found in that house in Malibu—Dee Dee McCall's DNA—enough DNA to presume that Dee Dee McCall was dead. And now…" She leaned back in her chair, shaking her head. "The mystery just got a little deeper, because neither one of us needs to waste some Forensic tech geek's or DNA expert's time to tell us who we are. Now, do we?"

Dee Dee pulled the corner of her upper lip into her mouth, gnawing. She remembered how interrogations worked; she even remembered some of the tactics she used to use. Be overly friendly, gain trust, act like you were there to help instead of persecute and the idiot would open up and give you more details than you wanted to know. Jesus. It was elementary police procedure not rocket science.

Lydia cleared her throat and leaned into the table, laying out her pudgy forearms over the structure's smooth surface. "Let me lay it on the line for you," she said, her glasses having slid to the end of the nose, pinching her nostrils closed. "All this time you've spent in here perfecting your Helen Keller act? Elian Sandoval has been two-doors down having a powwow with three high-priced, starched shirt attorneys. The uppity type, if you know what I mean, the kind who don't like to lose. So, if it's some kind of loyalty you think you're showing by keeping your mouth shut, you might want to think again. Because a soulless piece of slime like Sandoval is only going to take care of himself, and you can be damn sure he'll throw everyone else to the Federal wolves." She shook her head, pushing a whistling breath out of her squashed nostrils. "And, hon, those wolves are hungry. Trust me when I tell you, they're ready for a meal, and they aren't picky eaters."

Dee Dee swallowed hard, audibly in the quiet room. She looked away from the piercing brown eyes, down at the floor, and then slammed her eyes closed. How was she supposed to think straight if they wouldn't let her talk to Elian? She needed the rules spelled out for her—_his_ rules, not Federal lies. Elian still hadn't decided if he could forgive her for the mistakes she'd already made. So, how could she risk making more and losing the possibility of his forgiveness altogether?

Lydia stared for a moment longer, before relaying her brimming frustration through a sigh. With a shake of her head, she reached to the folder again, pushing Dee Dee's photograph aside and exposing the one beneath it. Another five-by-seven, color, a head and shoulders shot. The man's dark blonde hair was smoothed away from his face and his eyes smiled even though his lips didn't. In those eyes, Dee Dee once again saw kindness.

And resignation.

"Special Agent Thomas Landry," Lydia announced, nodding toward the photo. "I had the privilege of knowing him personally. Let me tell you, he was one hell of an agent, and he was an even better human being."

Dee Dee didn't look into the dark eyes across the table; she didn't need to to know they were staring. She focused instead on the eyes captured in the photograph, the kindness in them, the sincerity that she'd chosen to ignore the first time she'd looked into them.

_Thomas Landry_. It was the stranger's name; it was who he had been.

He'd been_ someone_. Not just another puppet that Elian controlled.

"Agent Landry had a wife and three children—three children who, before the day is over, are going to be told that their daddy isn't ever coming home again. And you know, I'd like to be able to give them a reason for that. Maybe a reason like, he died trying to help someone else who really needed to get home. That'd make him seem kind of like a hero, don't you think?"

Dee Dee tore her gaze away from the photograph, hiding from the kind eyes. She wiped a hand across her forehead and then beneath her nose, her eyelids fluttering. How could she be so hot and so cold at the same time? Her skin felt frigid to the touch, but beneath it a fire was raging, burning her alive from the inside out. Making it hard to breathe, to think.

To know for sure what Elian expected of her.

**xxx**

"Looks like they started the party without us," Charlie grumbled, his eyes narrowed to combat the rising sun as he scanned the nearly filled-to-capacity parking lot of the Federal Building. They pulled into a stall and he shot a glance at Hunter, pursing his lips. "We're just small fish in this pond, Hunter. We need to keep that in mind. We don't have any weight to push around here."

"And they don't have any excuses," Hunter growled, ripping the key out of the ignition. "Six years, Charlie. Damn it—"

"There was DNA," Mallory interrupted from the backseat. "Too much to think anyone could have…survived…" She sighed, grasping her door handle. "My God. What happened?"

"That's what we're going to find out," Hunter hissed, as he shoved a shoulder into the driver's side door and pushed it open. He hit the pavement at a jog, ignoring the grunts and groans from Mallory and Charlie behind him as they tried to meet his pace. Screw waiting around for even one more second. He had let everyone else convince him to wait six years, and every day he ignored his gut when it told him there was a better way he needed to spend his time. Within the boundaries of his own tiny, secure world, he looked for her. In every face he passed, every corner table of every restaurant he ate in, in the air that swirled around him. Even when she became a memory to everyone else, she remained his present.

His purpose.

Or at least that was what he convinced himself while simultaneously cursing everyone else for giving up and letting go so easily. But the truth was, he should have been cursing himself. Because through every search, every second that he spent thinking about her, every prayer he said for her, he tried his damnedest to let go.

"Rick! Slow down, damn it!" Mallory huffed behind him.

Instinctively, Hunter understood that her command didn't have anything to do with speed. And when he finally slowed and took a good look at her flushed face, all he saw was the fear that he'd expected. Fear of what would be found inside the multiple story building, who would be found, and how irrevocably what was found would change their lives.

"I need to get in there," he said, Mallory coming to a stop beside him. He offered a passing glance to Charlie as he continued by and then came to a stop three parking stalls ahead of them.

"Why?" Mallory questioned breathlessly. "You're not with the FBI. You're just a cop—a stupid cop from LA who—" Her voice broke, and she shook her head, hard. "Please. I'm asking, okay— Jesus. I'm _begging_. Don't go in there."

He ran his hands up her arms, giving gentle squeezes to her tensed shoulders. "I can't do this, not now—"

"If not now, when?" She took a quick step back, her trembling hands raised between them. "Damn it. I've been patient; you know I have. And it's because…I thought…if I gave you the space you needed to work through it all, to get over her…" She dragged her fingertips across her lips, sniffling. "I know what you're hoping to find in there, I do. And, please, don't hate me for saying this. But I hope, I…don't want it to be her. God forgive me, I've never wanted it to be here."

If it hadn't been for her tears, her disclosure might have angered him. But instead, he understood—he tried to. He wanted to, because he did love her. There was a part of him that didn't want anyone but her. But there was another part, too, and it had suddenly become overwhelming. Bigger than he'd ever believed it could be, more consuming than it had ever been before. With a shake of, he shook off—shot down—both of their hopes. Because neither, they both knew, wouldn't come true, anyway. Pulling her into his arms, he hugged her close as she trembled against him, hiccupping through breaths.

"What's going to happen?" Mallory whispered, glancing up into his tensed face. "If it's her, what happens to us?"

He hesitated, mulled over her fears, before answering the only way he could. Honestly. "I don't know. But if it is her, I owe it to her to bring her home."

"If it is her, you already have. So, leave it alone, Rick, please. Let's get back in the car and go home. If she's alive, if she's in that building, let the FBI handle it."

He shook his head, the tip of his chin scraping lightly across her scalp. "I can't do that. You know I can't."

She pushed away from him, taking a step back. Sniffling, she dried her cheeks with quick swipes of her hands. "Even if she's in there, it won't be her—who you're looking for. You know that, right? You understand it?"

He took in a breath, frowning. But he didn't agree with her, he couldn't. He wasn't strong enough yet to face the entirety of the truth.

"Hunter." Charlie turned to face the duo, his stare drifting back and forth between the two.

The years had been hard on him; Hunter couldn't ignore the effects. He'd seen the changes chip away at Charlie's exterior and knew, from his own experience, that each little chip represented a gaping hole in his interior. After the FBI officially closed Dee Dee's case, Charlie didn't say much more about her. Not in eulogy, or anger, or expressing what ifs, or what he wished would have been. He moved forward like it was business as usual, like tragedy hadn't taken a personal toll on any of them. But then, gradually, the chips began appearing. His eyes dulled, energy waned and voice took on a wistful quality. Wrinkles deepened and smiles became associated with his past only, not things he took with him when he stepped forward into the future. Dee Dee became a sense of guilt that he couldn't shake, maybe one that he didn't want to. And Hunter often wondered if that guilt was Charlie's way of holding onto her, just like the house on Mesden Drive had been his.

Charlie mopped his forehead with his hand, glancing over his shoulder at the brightly lit building. His eyes flitted upwards to the top-story row of windows and then lowered again to the glass-paned doors. With a shake of his head, he whispered to himself, "She's in there. Fifty feet and an elevator ride away." His gaze shifted again, capturing Hunter's as he sidled up beside him. "How do we explain the last six years to her?"

Sunlight peeked over the top of the building, bright, morning rays raining down on them, and in the light Hunter caught the glimmer of tears in the captain's eyes. Maybe they were the result of years' worth of guilt; maybe they were the continuation of it. Either way, Hunter ignored them, putting a hand on Charlie's shoulder and squeezing lightly, supportively. It was all he knew to do, because he didn't have answers for Charlie or Mallory's questions.

He didn't know how to alleviate either of their fears. Not when his had become too big to manage.

**xxx**

"Someone murdered Thomas Landry, Ms. McCall, and I need to know who that someone is."

For God's sake, why wouldn't she shut up? It was question after question after question, then a commentary followed by assumptions. And then she started the damned routine all over again. Dee Dee spun around on her heels, her back momentarily to a determined Lydia Ortiz. When she hadn't been able to stomach looking at Thomas Landry's picture any longer, she'd begun pacing. Back and forth at the back of the room, keeping her distance from the two-way mirror and the zealous freak show ticket holders on the other side of it. She needed to move, to keep moving, to stay focused on what she knew was expected of her versus the woman's damned, repetitive questions.

"Come on now, Ms. McCall," Lydia continued, an edge having crept into her voice that eradicated the compassion she'd arrived conveying. "Federal agents have been ripping apart every nook and cranny of that big, old house in Coral Gables all night long. And you know what they found?" Her eyebrows arched. "A gun in the dining room, along with a woman's high-heeled shoe. Elian Sandoval doesn't strike me as the type of bigot who'd put a cross dresser on his payroll, so that leads me to only one conclusion—that there was a woman in that room when Thomas Landry was there. And what I'm really curious to figure out is, was the owner of that shoe a forced witness to Thomas's execution, or was she my gunman?"

Dee Dee came to an abrupt stop, the soles of her shoes sliding over the slick tile. She turned into the corner, dropping her forehead against the wall and focusing on the coolness of the stone against her skin. _Shut up_, she told herself, repeating it with the same determination that Lydia Ortiz had repeated her questions. _If you don't say anything, you can't say anything wrong. So, don't talk. Don't think. Don't remember._

Lydia sighed loudly, with frustration. "We've been in this room most of the night listening to me talk, and we can stay in here all day, too, if you want. Trust me, I never get tired of hearing my own voice. But my gift for gab aside, the fact is before either of us can leave here, you're going to have to do some talking of your own."

_Ms. McCall_. Why did they have to keep calling her that? It connected her too closely to the past, and she didn't want to go back there. She couldn't. No matter how hard they wanted to pretend they knew who she was—that she was _Ms. McCall_—they were wrong. That wasn't her, and she would be damned before she let herself become that her again.

"I'd really like to know what has you so scared," Lydia said, reclining in the straight-back chair and crossing one bulky leg over the other. "Scared enough that you're willing to risk getting hit with a murder charge." As Dee Dee glanced back over her shoulder, Lydia nodded. "It could happen if you keep saying nothing while Sandoval keeps spilling his lying guts to those overpaid piranhas of his. Deals get made all the time; surely you remember that. And do you really think Sandoval is the kind of man who'd let himself take the fall for a Federal Agent's murder when there are so many less important people he could pin it on? Because all those idiots we dragged off that estate? None of them are saying anything, either. So far, Sandoval is the only one who seems willing to cooperate."

Dee Dee dug the tips of her fingers into the wall, trying to find something to hold onto. Something sturdy that would keep her upright since the damned floor kept tilting beneath her. Elian had threatened too many times to count to send her away; he'd promised that he could make her disappear, anywhere he chose. But he'd never threatened her with prison. And why would he? Why would she take him seriously if he did? Prison would be a redundant threat considering she was six years into a life sentence.

"You know, there are a lot of theories floating around about you," Lydia continued, dropping the foot of her crossed leg to the floor. "One of them is that you just went bad." She shrugged a brawny shoulder as Dee Dee turned a fraction, still wide-eyed. "Happens, right? A cop feels underappreciated, underpaid. He—or she—starts to get a little pissed off at the system, starts to feel taken advantage of. Then someone like Oscar Velasquez comes along, someone who knows how to beat the system, who's been beating it long enough to make all the good cops look like fools. There's the promise of money, more money than we both know a hardworking cop could ever make during her career, and before this cop takes the time to really think through what she's doing, she signs up to play for the other team. After awhile, though, Velasquez gets tired of her, or maybe she gets tired of him, but she isn't ready to let go of this new life. So, she moves on and finds another piece of slime who is just as willing as Velasquez used to be to float her tab. Then when living a lie gets to be too tough for her, she just disappears. Drops off the radar and heads to Coral Gables to live the good life. That is…" She pursed her lips, taking in a breath. "Until some Federal Agent starts snooping around and threatens to take that good life away from her."

Lydia hunched forward, digging her elbows into her thighs. Staring. Watching as the tears welled up in Dee Dee's eyes, preparing to pounce and take full advantage of the weakening resolve they signified. "See, that's one of the theories," she continued. "But it's not one I've ever put any stock in. The thing is, though, there are a lot of opinions that matter a lot more than mine does. And while I can appreciate that you're scared, probably even confused, I need to know what's happened to you to make you feel that way now. Because without some help from you, I can't fight those theories, and I sure as hell can't fight Elian Sandoval. The fact is, I won't be able to fight anything or anyone else if all my time is being spent fighting you."

Dee Dee turned fully, through stumbled steps, and pushed the backs of her shoulders into the corner. Her first teardrop fell, and then a second and a third. Elian had promised from the beginning that the past would never be a threat; it could never catch up to her. Time—days and months and years worth of it—had convinced her to believe him, and gradually, circumstances convinced her that she didn't want it to catch her. So, she taught herself how to exist without living, how to survive without feeling, how to think without remembering.

And in the end, maybe what she'd been left with was a life she didn't want, but it was the life she needed.

It was the life she had to fight to get back.

Even if that meant Lydia Ortiz would be left with nothing at all to fight for.

**xxx**

"You son of a bitch! Who the hell gave you the authority to go over my head and move on this?"

Hunter charged out of the elevator a step ahead of both Charlie and Mallory, their attention instantly diverting to the two men standing nose-to-nose in the center of the hallway. Around them, activity ensued. Tense-faced men and women scurried up and down the corridor, some talking into cell phones, others with papers and file folders clutched in death grips, and still others with no apparent purpose at all. Just wandering, like they were afraid if they left they might miss out on something important.

"I could have your shield for this, Porter!"

Gideon Stanton shoved his face even closer to Riley Porter's; his cheeks flushed crimson and eyes bulging. It had been six years, more or less, but the prick's stench hit Hunter's nostrils with nauseating familiarity. He was still the same greased-up monkey in a three-piece suit, still putting all of his energy into trying to convince everyone else that he was the best at his game instead of putting any energy into perfecting his skills. Just one more Federal son of a bitch so high on himself that he'd lost his footing in reality altogether.

"You want my shield?" Porter hissed, his own face glowing red and stance rigid. "Take it! Sandoval's in custody, isn't he? The bastard would have his private plane parked in Colombia right now if I'd waited around until you got tired of twirling your thumbs!"

"You're out of line!"

"And you did a half-ass job with this investigation right from the start!" Porter shot back, not noticing Hunter, Charlie and Mallory cautiously inching their way down the corridor. "Christ's sake, do you feel any responsibility at all for what happened to Landry? Is knowing he's dead going to bother you any more than it did when you let fucked up DNA testing put Dee Dee McCall in the ground?"

Stanton forced a laugh. "You'd better watch your step!"

"Why's that? Afraid if I keep talking everyone else will finally realize how incompetent you are?"

"I'm incompetent?" Stanton barked, shoving the tip of his thumb into his chest. "Who was Landry reporting to? Huh? Who sent him into that war zone?" He snorted another laugh, shaking his head. "You need someone to blame for his death, look in the mirror. This one's all on you, pal." Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of Hunter, Charlie and Mallory. Spinning around, a finger pointed in their direction, he brought the activity in the hallway to a standstill, bellowing, "Stop right there! This is my jurisdiction, Hunter, not the Keystone Cops'!"

Hunter grunted his impatience, continuing forward. "What, you didn't screw up the investigation enough the first time? You think McCall owes you another six years?"

"I'll call security!" Stanton threatened. "Your sorry ass will be thrown in lockup!"

"Call security!" Hunter seethed, coming to a stop in front of a red-faced Stanton. His hands fisted, his arms tensed at his sides, as Charlie murmured in warning, "Take it easy, Hunter." Hesitating, his entire body jerking, he took a step back. Charlie was right—he had to keep his head on straight. Like it or not, the Feds were in charge, and if he wanted to keep getting party invites from Riley Porter, he had to play nice—or at least make it seem like he was. Otherwise, they could make Dee Dee disappear again. Hide her underground right under his nose, close—_found_—but out of reach.

Out of his reach, still.

"Where is she?" Hunter asked, turning his attention on Porter. "Can we—"

"You can get the hell back on the elevator and your asses back to California!" Stanton snapped. "Go home, Hunter. Make yourself useful—write some parking tickets or something. We'll handle the tough stuff."

"Like you handled it six years ago?" Charlie said, his stare narrowed on Stanton. He shook his head, slowly and methodically. "I made the mistake of trusting you once, I don't intend to make the same mistake again." His gaze flitted toward Porter, his eyes still narrowed, still angry. "Agent Porter, I want to see my sergeant. Now."

"Sergeant?" Stanton laughed harshly. "With all due respect, Captain Devane, what Dee Dee McCall is, is a suspect in the murder of Special Agent Thomas Landry. She's not talking to anyone except designated Federal Agents, and she isn't going anywhere except lockup."

"You son of a bitch!" Hunter barked, jumping forward and into Riley Porter's readied arms. The agent locked his arms around Hunter's swinging ones, shoving a shoulder into his chest and pushing him backwards until an antagonistic Gideon Stanton was out of reach.

"This is why I wanted you to stay in LA!" Porter hissed at Hunter, unlocking his hold on him and shoving both hands into the center of Hunter's chest. "Emotions are high enough right now without adding your irrational ones into the mix, Hunter! You keep going off like a loaded cannon and Stanton is right, you'll get yourself locked up!"

"Go ahead, lock me up!" Hunter shot back. "But if you're going to do it, do it now! Because I'm not going to stand here and let this prick railroad Dee Dee!" He shoved a hand against Porter's shoulder, pushing the agent further back. "Murder, Porter? _Murder?_ We both know Dee Dee would never—"

"No, you _knew_ Dee Dee!" Stanton cut in. "It's been over six years, Hunter! And we both know people change in that amount of time!" He shrugged a shoulder. "I mean, come on. It's not like she hadn't shot people before she pulled her disappearing act. That gets into your blood. You shoot once it's a hell of a lot easier to do the second time. And after that, well, I've heard it becomes reflexive."

"You son of a bitch!" Hunter bellowed, Porter once again hopping in front of him, blocking him from reaching Stanton. "Since when do we set up the victims to take the fall?"

"Victim?" Stanton asked, chuckling. "As far as I can tell, Lieutenant, the only victim in this whole mess is Thomas Landry." He stepped up behind Porter, purposely close, peeking around the other agent's shoulder at Hunter. A smile crossed his lips, spreading slowly, finishing smugly. "Talk to anyone in Coral Gables, anyone in Miami, Hunter. Elian Sandoval is well respected, a pillar of his community."

"A pillar?" Charlie snapped. "He's a trafficker—"

Stanton raised his hands, silencing the captain. " No one's saying the guy didn't get carried away with his business aspirations." He shrugged a shoulder, his smile fading into a blasé expression. "But we all know it happens. Some poor schmuck who grew up in poverty comes to the states, makes his first million, then wants to make the second million even faster. So, he starts dabbling outside of the law. Switches things up, you know, and starts moving drugs instead of legitimate imports and exports."

"That's what you consider human trafficking, Stanton?" Hunter pressed. "Switching things up?"

"As usual, Lieutenant," Stanton rebutted, "you're talking out of the side of your mouth. The human trafficking charge is so far unfounded. We don't have any concrete evidence that supports it."

Hunter shot a glance at Porter, his brows lowering questioningly as Porter shrugged. "We apprehended seventeen of Sandoval's men," Porter explained, "but so far, no one's talking. And as far as the rest of his staff goes, they're still in the wind. Until we can get someone to open up—"

"Wishful thinking," Stanton sighed. "No one's talking because there's nothing to tell. Other than the drugs, which Mr. Sandoval himself has admitted to, there's no proof of any other crimes being committed."

"Since when was kidnapping taken off the books as a crime?" Charlie interjected, his tone flat and controlled, although anger had etched its way into every wrinkle and crevice on his aged face.

Stanton chuckled, shaking his head. "We don't have any proof that anyone was kidnapped, either."

"You're a real piece of work!" Hunter hissed, butting his shoulder against Porter's again. "You were around six years ago! You spearheaded the raid against John Diego Velasquez—"

"Velasquez!" Stanton argued, once again red-faced. "_Not_ Elian Sandoval. Face it, Hunter, you didn't know your old partner as well as you thought you did, because you want to know what I've found? It seems like she was just as bored with her dead-end career and tired of schlepping for a few measly bucks as Sandoval was. She wanted more, and she went after it." He stepped even closer to Porter, against him, sandwiching the agent between Hunter and him. "The hard fact is, she played us. She wanted out of her miserable life, and she found a way out. And that way was through Oscar Velasquez first and Elian Sandoval next."

Hunter felt his blood reach a boil, actually felt it heating up in his veins, bubbling and fizzing. His vision blurred and mind shut down to the activity around him, the only thoughts he was left with being memories. Ones that he'd tried like hell not to remember, to ostracize from his mind. But no matter how hard he tried, they proved to be more stubborn, determined to keep haunting him. Visions of Dee Dee, anxious, hovering over him. He saw the gun crash down on her head, watched her slump to the floor...

"That's right, hotshot," Stanton continued, peering over the top of Porter's shoulder at Hunter. "According to Sandoval, your partner wasn't as innocent as she wanted everyone to believe. Seems she was more of an accomplice to her own kidnapping than the victim of it."

"Don't you think it's possible that Elian Sandoval would say just about anything at this point to save his own ass?" Mallory interjected, her tone stiff. "Even without the human trafficking charges, he's going to prison. Men facing long sentences will say anything that someone else wants to hear, it's called cutting a deal. And with all due respect, Agent Stanton, we Keystone Cops have found that a person who's in a rush to make a deal isn't always all that reliable."

"That's what separates the men from the boys, Sergeant Trask," Stanton sneered. "The FBI makes sure to have solid proof in their hands before believing. And the proof, well, in this case it speaks for itself."

Hunter glanced at Porter, their stares connecting, passing back and forth both confusion and hesitance. With a shove against Porter's chest, Hunter stepped back, sidling up beside Mallory, as Stanton snickered victoriously. "You couldn't wait to bury her six years ago, Stanton, and you're in just as big of a hurry to do it now. What the hell is your agenda?"

Stanton shrugged a shoulder, triumph still gleaming in his eyes. "Upholding the law, Lieutenant Hunter, that's my only agenda. Isn't that what we both took an oath to do?"

"Hunter, Captain Devane," Porter interjected shakily. "Let's find somewhere to talk—"

"No!" Hunter snapped. "Let's finish this here! What proof are you pretending to have this time, Stanton? Another mixed up batch of DNA?"

Stanton laughed lowly, through a shake of his head. "You really want to know what I have?" He laughed again, mockingly. "A marriage certificate found in Sandoval's home safe, right where Sandoval himself said it would be. It was issued two months after your partner went missing, and just to make this fair and give you a fighting chance to catch up with the big boys, I'm going to give you one guess at whose signatures are on the bottom of that certificate." He took in a breath, strong and inflating, before turning his back to the men and shouting over his shoulder as he took off down the hallway, "Mrs. Sandoval has wasted enough of Agent Ortiz's time, Porter! Get the paperwork started! I want her locked in a cell before the day is over!"


	10. Chapter 10

**TEN**

"I've read a lot about you, you know. This file they put together on you is pretty thick. From what I've seen, doesn't seem like you were ever too good about following orders. Internal Affairs saw you as somewhat of a rebel, bit of a troublemaker when you were on the force."

Dee Dee glanced up, breathing in the woman's newest attempt at engaging her in a two-way conversation. She arched her brows lazily, in silent, ambiguous agreement with the assumption given, pressing the backs of her shoulders harder into the wall behind her. The woman was persistent, Dee Dee would give her that much, but she was also wasting both of their time. There wasn't anything that she could say, why didn't the woman understand that? Not until she saw Elian, until she talked to him so that he could tell her what was the right thing to say.

"So, what happened to that fighting spirit?" Lydia continued, slumped over the table. "Did you just get tired of it, is that? Or did someone else get tired of it instead?" As Dee Dee's stare remained steadfast, Lydia righted herself in the chair. "It happens. Someone wants you to comply, but it's not really in you to do that. It starts off with a slap here or there if you say or do the wrong thing, next thing you know it's a punch in the gut, maybe to the jaw. Maybe you even get kicked, or hit with other things, like belts, hairbrushes…" She sighed, running a hand through her mussed bangs. "I even saw a case once where the instrument of choice was a regular, old table tennis paddle. From the pictures I saw, those things can leave some pretty good welts, let me tell you."

Dee Dee answered with a stare; her only audible retort a hard swallow. Cunning and his own physical strength were all Elian needed in order to control; he'd both told and shown her that enough times. But his iron fists hadn't broken her spirit; at least she didn't like to think they had. She liked to believe they'd just made her adept at hiding it.

"Of course, some men use sex as a means of control. But then again, you don't need me to tell you that, right? You were in the business long enough, so there's probably nothing I could tell you about that that you don't already know." Using the tabletop as leverage, she pushed herself up and out of the chair, her movements laborious, tired. Lifting her arms above her head, she groaned through a stretch, her stare never leaving Dee Dee's pale face. "During your time on the force you probably saw it happen enough times, right? Women getting so beaten down, so broken down after time that they started to see the abuse as being their fault, maybe even something they deserved?" She nodded once, sharply. "Yeah, you probably saw it. Probably logged your fair share of time, too, talking to victims, trying to convince them that no one deserved to be treated that way. That no one had the right to treat someone else that way."

_Elementary police procedure_, Dee Dee silently accused again, a mixture of laughter and tears tightening her throat. Put yourself on the victim's level, make it seem like you understand what they've been through and how they feel. It _was_ elementary, so why was she letting it get to her? The woman didn't know anything about her. Not about her life, what she thought, or what she believed. She wasn't broken; she knew that she wasn't. And she wasn't stupid, either. When there was no way to win, you gave up. Conceded. It was the first rule of survival, and the first lesson Elian had taught her.

"So, is that what happened? You said the wrong thing, the bastard slapped you around, and if you still didn't get the message, he upped the degree of humiliation?"

Dee Dee reacted to the woman's educated assumption with a mental eye roll. She'd be damned before she gave anyone blow-by-blow details of her humiliation. It was hard enough to think about herself, and she sure as hell didn't need anyone else lending a voice to it and making it too real to pretend that it had never happened. She couldn't risk that happening, not when her survival had become so dependent on pretending. If she lost her ability to pretend, she wouldn't have anything left.

Lydia walked down the length of the table, giving a hard stare to the two-way mirror before turning her back to it. She leaned against the glass, folding her arms over her chest and crossing one ankle over the other, her lips twisting in thought. "Six years…" she finally said. "I'd say that's more than enough time for someone to pick up a bad case of Stockholm syndrome." She arched a brow, looking Dee Dee up and down. "But the thing is, with you, that's not what I see. It's not the vibe I get. There's something else going on, and I need to know what it is. Because whatever your reason is for protecting the bastard, you ask me, it's not a good enough one. Not considering."

_Screw you_, Dee Dee glared, stiffening and knotting her own arms defiantly across her chest.

"Yeah, yeah, go to hell. I've gotten that message loud and clear." Lydia sighed, rolling her eyes. "Let's think about this. There's something we're missing." She scrubbed the underside of her chin with her fingertips, her brows furrowing. "You're scared, I get that. I mean, why wouldn't you be? You've been through six years of God knows what, although I'm pretty sure I've come to the same conclusion that both God and you already know." She shrugged a shoulder, once again crossing her arms. "But the thing is, you have this training in your background. Now, not that it makes you immune to normal feelings, that'd be stupid to think, but it should make you more conscious of what you are feeling and why. You know the perverts' techniques, and you know the reactions they want to get by using them. Which means, right from the start, you must've figured out the game the bastard was playing with you. So, what else is going on? What is it specifically that you don't want to tell me? Because there _is_ something, we both know it." She stepped away from the wall, her lips pursed. "Just like we both know that something has you more scared than Elian Sandoval does."

**xxx**

Marriage Certificate.

Signatures.

Two months.

_Fuck_. He couldn't sit still.

The need to move was overwhelming and overpowering, making Hunter's muscles jerk as he stomped his way up one side of the table and down the other side. He lapped it again and again, ignoring his small audience's stares as he circled them where they sat with Charlie and Mallory on one side of the structure and Riley Porter on the other side.

"Hunter, if you'll sit down—"

Hunter hit Porter with a glare, silencing him. "Married?" He swiped a hand over the top of his hair, rounding the end of the table. Again. "What the hell is going on? Something's not…it isn't…she's…to Sandoval?" He came to a quick stop, only for a second, before jumping into motion again. "How do we know the marriage certificate isn't a fake?"

"We don't," Porter answered, scrubbing his hands over his face. "Right now, we don't know anything other than what Sandoval has said, which isn't a hell of a lot. And so far everything he's said has been to Stanton and only Stanton. Other than his attorneys, it's the only person he'll talk to."

"Why that prick?" Hunter scoffed.

Porter shrugged, trying to diffuse a smile. "Probably because they have a lot in common. First and foremost, their fat egos."

Hunter snorted a laugh, momentarily coming to a stop behind Charlie's chair, as Charlie croaked weakly, "And what about Dee Dee?"

Porter answered first with a frown, before shaking his head. "One of my best agents has been with her for hours. Dee Dee hasn't said a word yet. Nothing."

"Then let me talk to—" Hunter began, before Porter stopped him with a hard shake of his head. "Damn it, Porter, come on. I know her better than anyone. We were partners—friends—"

"_Were_, Hunter," Porter interrupted again. "You haven't seen her, I have. I sat next to her in a car for close to forty-five minutes, and she wouldn't even look at me. If I accidentally touched her, she jumped like she'd been burned." He spun around in his chair as Hunter stomped behind him, following his movements to the end of the table. "I don't know what in the hell has gone on between Sandoval and her, but whatever it is, it has her scared now. Whether she's afraid of getting into trouble herself, or getting Sandoval into trouble—"

"Oh, come on!" Hunter snapped. "Don't tell me you're siding with Stanton! You think Dee Dee could've killed—"

"Landry?" Porter cut in, both frustration and impatience keeping him in the thick of Hunter's and his interposing match. He slumped in the chair, slamming his forearms down on the tabletop. "Stanton talks because he likes to hear himself, but no one ever listens to him. There was evidence found in the house, though, that makes us think Dee Dee was there when Landry was shot, that she maybe even saw who did it. And maybe that's what has her scared, I don't know. Until she decides to start talking, no one's going to know. Which the longer she stays quiet, the more it's going to hurt her. All her silence is doing is giving Stanton more ammunition."

Hunter came to another quick stop for one more second, because that was as long as he could stand to be idle. After six years, he finally had a direction to move in and he wasn't about to waste any more time ignoring his intuition. It was telling him to search the building from top to bottom, every room, every corner. This time, he couldn't be lazy; he couldn't let doubts be stronger that what he knew.

And he _knew_ Dee Dee.

Screw Porter and Stanton; screw the entire FBI. Six years could change a person; he knew that better than anyone. Just like he knew that some beliefs were too strong to ever change, and the ones that made up whom you were you took with you to the grave.

"To hell with Stanton," Hunter growled. "He had a hard-on for Dee Dee back then, and he still has one now."

"Don't take it personally," Porter responded, "and don't think he's treating Dee Dee special. Generally, he's a jackass to everyone."

"No one's arguing that he's a jackass," Mallory interjected, "but you can't say Rick's wrong, either. Stanton seems to have an agenda where Dee Dee's concerned. So, what's the plan? Are you going to let him lock her up?"

Hunter came to a stop at the end of the table, staring down its length. He tried to find some strength in Mallory, something that fell into sync with his own renewed energy, but all he found was exhaustion. Physically in the way she sat slumped, like she couldn't hold herself upright any longer, and mentally in the blankness that had befallen her expression and filled her eyes. It was all too much for her, Hunter knew. The anxiety, worrying, and the what ifs that he'd promised both Mallory and himself wouldn't have a place in what happened in Miami.

For the most part they'd all tried to move on, in their own ways and at their own paces, and the majority had eventually found a rhythm to their steps again. In the beginning, it was Mallory who seemed to move on the fastest. Maybe to set an example for him, maybe because moving on was less painful than remaining stagnant like Hunter chose to do. Whichever it was, she'd found a way within herself to not only bury her husband, but Dee Dee, also. To let go of both of them even though Hunter held onto his guilt as a keepsake. And he worried that guilt would double in size, becoming too big to manage, to live with. Because all along, Mallory had been his loudest cheering section, his biggest supporter for moving on. The one who'd tried the hardest to convince him that there wasn't a point in looking back, because there was nothing there to see.

"You can't lock her up," Hunter said. "Stanton can talk all he wants, but anyone who knows Dee Dee knows that she wouldn't…not with someone like Sandoval. If the marriage isn't a sham then it was forced on her. And whatever else has happened…" He dropped his head forward, leaning over the table on stiffened arms. Breathing in, breathing out, Charlie's heavy breaths rasping out of sync with his.

"Let us see her," Charlie added softly. "Maybe we can get her to talk."

Porter looked from one to the other, his own expression as drawn as theirs. "If you can manage to keep your mouth shut for five minutes, Hunter, I'll let you see her. But." He caught all three stares, his eyes narrowing in warning. "Just _see_ her. You can't talk to her, not yet. Not until she talks to us."

**xxx**

The woman had finally left her alone. _Finally_.

Dee Dee wasn't naive enough to think it meant a victory for her; the woman would be back. But it gave her a few minutes, at least, to think without being bombarded by the damned questions and assumptions.

She walked the length of the room, dragging her hand along the air-chilled wall. Glancing up at the clock, her eyes narrowed against the exhaustion jumbling her thoughts, as she focused on the black hands. _11:53_. She knew it was A.M. because through the lone window in the room she'd watched the sun come up, all the while behind her the woman had kept talking. Asking questions, making assumptions, pretending to understand what Dee Dee knew there wasn't any way she could ever understand.

She closed her eyes, thinking. Trying to, at least. They'd had her locked in the tile-floor fishbowl for at least twelve hours.

_Twelve hours_.

Damn it, they were wasting time. _She_ was wasting time.

The first twenty-four to forty-eight hours were the most critical, the ones that offered the greatest chance of success. During that time span memories were still clear, evidence was still fresh, trails were still warm…

People were still findable.

She fell back against the wall, letting the back of her head thud against the hard stone. Elian was talking to his attorneys. It was what the woman—what was her name? What had she said—Lynda? Lydia? She shook her head, burying her hands in the sides of her hair. _Think_. The woman had told her that Elian was talking to his attorneys, and Dee Dee knew he was expecting her not to talk to anyone. So, if she kept playing as stupid as he believed her to be, it might just work to her advantage one more time.

Or it could be exactly what he was counting on from her—to be stupid one last time.

Closing her eyes, she popped the back of her head against the wall again, and then popped it again. Why couldn't she seem to think? The woman's words kept twisting with Elian's in her mind, confusing her. The FBI wanted answers, and Elian expected silence. He would punish her if she talked, and they would punish her if she didn't. And all the while, time would keep moving forward. Twelve hours would turn into twenty-four, twenty-four would become forty-eight, and then it wouldn't matter whose rules she followed.

Either way, she would be the loser.

She startled as the door swung open, the woman shuffling through with Styrofoam cups in both hands. With a rise of her eyebrows and nod toward the table, she made her way to the structure and deposited the cups side-by-side. "Since you seem to have an aversion to caffeine, I brought plain, old H2O this time," she announced. "You really should drink something. Or, uh, are you hungry? You won't find anything gourmet around here, all we have to spend is the government's dime, but I could have some deli sandwiches brought in." She jutted a thumb in the direction of the door as it clicked into place in the jamb. "Your husband ordered a pastrami on rye. That sound good to you, too?"

Dee Dee's gaze dropped, a blush heating her cheeks.

Her husband.

_"I will honor and obey…"_

Her voice replayed in her mind as a shaky whisper only. Purposely, she'd omitted 'love' when the time had come for her to repeat her vows, just like Elian had omitted love, honor and obey from his. The only promise he'd made was to meet her every day needs, which she'd found laughable at the time.

But she hadn't laughed. She hadn't cried, either.

All she'd done was what he'd told her was expected of her.

_"I will honor and obey…"_

"Mrs. Sandoval, I need to be real honest with you here," the woman said, startling Dee Dee again. "A lot of people are feeling pretty confused where you're concerned. See now, in the beginning, when we figured out who you were and realized we were finally going to bring you home, we felt really good about that. A lot of people felt good about it. But now…" She shrugged a shoulder. "Those same people are starting to question this silent act. They can't figure out if it's because of guilt or trauma. You know what I mean?"

Dee Dee laughed softly, whisperingly. So, that was Elian's plan—to set her up? He knew having his name would make her look like his conspirator, a traitor, and would set her loyalties in stone in the opinion of the FBI. And, Christ, all she'd done so far was point them straight toward that mindset instead of try to dissuade them in any way from adopting it. She'd wasted time by following the rules, by waiting for the son of a bitch to tell her what his newest rules were. And the whole time she'd acted exactly the way he expected her to—stupidly. Doing what he expected hadn't gained her any favors, it wouldn't. All it had done was bury her deeper in the hole he'd started digging for her six years earlier.

"Mrs. Sandoval—"

Dee Dee quieted the woman with a hard shake of her head. Let the faceless doubters hiding behind the mirror have their opinions. Being unfairly judged no longer bothered her, just like being found guilty based on opinions only instead of facts no longer surprised her. What no one understood, maybe what they didn't care to understand, was that who she'd become wasn't whom she'd chosen to be. It was simply another way for Elian to control her.

Bypassing the mounting impatience in the woman's eyes, she caught her reflection in the mirror across the room. For the first time in over twelve hours, she actually looked at it.

But she didn't recognize it.

It was Elian's creation. The style of the hair, makeup, clothes, down to the coordinating silk underwear and bra that suddenly began to make her skin itch. The creation smelled like Elian's favorite perfume, wore lipstick that was Elian's favorite shade of red, had its nails sculpted to the shape and length that Elian preferred, and answered to the name that Elian had forced on it.

Dee Dee Sandoval.

She spun around, facing the wall, the image making her stomach roll. Because all she saw was Elian's creation, his conspirator.

His wife.

_"I will honor and obey…"_

**xxx**

"Get it through your head, Hunter, you're just getting a look, not going in. If you force me, I will lock you up."

Hunter responded to Riley Porter's threat with a grunt only. He stayed in step with the agent, each drop of their feet heavy, echoing and rushed. He was sick of rules and protocol, sick to death of the stuffed suit Feds telling him what to do. Listening—bowing down—had cost him too much already. There'd been all the damned wondering, worrying, the fear that woke him up drenched in a cold sweat in the middle of the night. For six years, he'd held on to her. He hadn't been able to let her go, and he'd never known why. Because there'd come a point when he'd wanted to.

God help him, he'd _wanted_ to.

And now, even with the outcome he'd spent so many years down on his knees praying to get, the same feelings were there. They were stronger. The knowing what that time had cost him, but still wondering and worrying and fearing what they had cost Dee Dee.

Porter came to a stop, turning to face Hunter and Charlie. Behind them, at the opening of the hallway, Mallory waited, and a little further down on the other side, less than ten steps forward, was a window. In front of it, a small group stood, whispers being passed back and forth between them.

Hunter swallowed hard. "How does she look?" he asked, his stare fixed on the two-way mirror.

"All things considered," Porter answered, "good. She, uh, she looks…good."

_She looked good_. Hunter nodded.

"Anyone think about taking her to a hospital to get checked out?" Charlie asked, impatience fringing his voice. "Just to make sure she doesn't have any injuries?"

"She wouldn't answer anyone around here when they asked if she was hurt," Porter answered, shaking his head. "You really think she'll talk to a doctor or even agree to an exam? I'm telling you, she's afraid of her own shadow, and even more afraid of us."

_Afraid_. Hunter took another bite out of his lip. Of course Dee Dee was afraid—_he_ was afraid. Too many times to want to count, he'd witnessed the trauma that a drive-by assault left someone wrestling with, and with Dee Dee it was years' worth. _Damn it_. Someone could accumulate a lot of injuries—too many fucking injuries—in that amount of time.

"Anything specific we should know?" Charlie asked stiffly, his gaze shooting around Porter and landing on the two-way mirror.

Porter shrugged. "There's a lot we need to know." He glanced at the men, his stare lingering on each for a dragging second before he motioned toward the mirror with a tilt of his head. "She's in there."

"And the audience?" Charlie asked.

"Other agents and our psychologist." Porter nodded toward a short, balding man whose head was tipped downward and hand was in motion as he scribbled notes onto a paper affixed to a clipboard. "He's been observing Dee Dee with Agent Ortiz."

"Ortiz?" Charlie questioned.

"Lydia Ortiz," Porter responded. "A twenty-year veteran. She's good with victims. Generally good at getting them to talk."

_Generally_. Hunter laughed to himself. Generally had never included Dee Dee. She'd always done things on her own time, in her own way. If any of the stuffed suits knew her, they would know that she didn't like to be pushed. When someone shoved her up against a wall, she shoved back. So, they had to quit pushing. Because the harder they tried, the harder she would resist.

Or that used to be the way Dee Dee reacted. At least, generally.

"So, McCall is considered a victim?" Charlie pressed suspiciously. "Because to hear Agent Stanton talk—"

"Like I said," Porter cut in, "Gideon Stanton talks to hear himself, but no one else ever listens. He's a hothead, too quick with opinions and too lazy to find the proof to back them up. But you both have my guarantee, Dee Dee will be considered innocent unless someone comes up with solid evidence that says she's guilty."

"Guilty?" Charlie responded quickly, irritably. "Of what?"

"My opinion?" Porter said. "Nothing. But just like with Stanton's half-baked opinion, mine has to be proven, also. That's why Ortiz is in with her. She's trying to get Dee Dee to talk, to give us some kind of idea how she ended up with Sandoval in the first place and what went on that made her stay with him for so long."

_What went on_. A burn exploded in Hunter's gut, a flash fire that quickly engulfed his chest and throat. He didn't want to think about what _had_ happened, he wanted to focus on what _would_ happen. In the future that would be given back to Dee Dee versus the past that had been stolen from her.

"One more of my opinions?" Porter said. "She's traumatized. Granted, I didn't really know her before, but the person I've always heard stories about isn't who I walked out of that house last night."

_Traumatized_. The word stuck in Hunter's throat, stopping him a step short of becoming face-to-mirror with the occupants inside of the room. It wasn't something he hadn't thought about—the trauma, _her_ trauma. Let the idiots like Gideon Stanton have their opinions, he knew Dee Dee, and he knew there was a reason—maybe a million of them—why she'd gotten lost in the system and stuck in Elian Sandoval's world. The trauma was just the tip of it, and the wondering what lay beneath it was what was fueling the fire that had managed to spread through him from the tips of his toes to the top of his head.

"Could we get a minute?" Hunter heard Porter say to the audience gathered in front of the window. Or he thought it was what Porter said, but he wasn't sure. The damned fire was raging at full capacity, droning in his ears, clouding his vision. Somewhere within the flames he thought he heard Charlie choke out a strangled, "Oh, damn," and he followed the echo of his voice until he came to a stop, sagging shoulder to sagging shoulder, beside the captain.

In front of him, the smoke cleared, a tunnel forming in the periphery of his vision, swirling on either side of him, black and gray mixing and obscuring everything except her. She stood at the far end of the room, her back to him, her forehead flush with the wall and fingers digging at the stones as if she were trying to carve out an opening that she could disappear through.

Anxiously, fearfully, Hunter soaked in the path of her hair, how it hung down her back, longer than he'd ever seen her wear it. The color was darker than he remembered—a dark brown, almost black in the harsh lighting in the room. As if hearing his unspoken plea, she turned slowly, cautiously, and offered her pale-faced audience of two their first look at her face. Suddenly, Hunter found himself speeding uncontrollably down the center of the dark shaft of smoke, the noise around him fading into the rage of the flames. His knees buckled and the floor beneath him began to shift, and he didn't feel Porter's hand lock around his forearm to support him.

He couldn't look away, too afraid that if he did, when he looked back, she would be gone again. He wanted to run to her, to beg her forgiveness for ever letting her become so lost for so long. He wanted to assure her that he hadn't forgotten, and that in his mind, at least, he'd never given up. He wanted her to know that she'd remained as much a part of his life throughout the past six years as she had been the years before them. He wanted to touch her, to familiarize himself with her again. But the sadness and apprehension that pervaded her dark eyes, that leapt so powerfully through the window and cut through to his soul, kept him frozen in place with his hands pressed against the window and tears stealing what was left of his sight.

It was then that he realized just how thick the smoke was, how suffocating.

And so he gave up trying to breathe.

**xxx**

12:17.

Dee Dee watched the clock, a soft _click_ accompanying the big hand's shift. Slowly, hesitantly, she forced herself to meet the woman's stare again and then conspicuously led her gaze to the two-way mirror. Behind it, someone was watching. Watching her, dissecting her. Waiting to find out, ultimately, who she was—the person they'd initially celebrated bringing home, or the traitor they'd begun to see her as.

Lydia pulled the chair she'd occupied throughout the long night away from the table, sitting down through a groan and making another curious glance at the two-way mirror, as Dee Dee's stare remained locked on it. "Come on, hon, you remember how it works," she said, shrugging. "Around here, there's no such thing as privacy. But I can guarantee you no one is out there that can't be trusted."

_Trust_. It was a laughable word with an even more laughable definition. There'd been a time when Dee Dee actually believed in it. She believed that she had solid proof that it existed. But that was a long time ago, another lifetime ago. A time when she'd been naïve enough to believe that if she put her faith in one little word, in return she'd receive everything it was supposed to represent.

Pushing off the wall, she made her way across the room. Hesitantly, she dropped down into the chair she'd originally occupied, seated at the head of the rectangular-shaped table, facing the mirror head-on. With another noticeable shift of her eyes, she directed the woman's attention to the glass, and then slowly, subtly, slid her arm across the tabletop and touched the tip of her index finger against an ink pen lying atop a yellow-papered legal pad.

Lydia's eyes dipped, her gaze remaining for a dragging second on the pen and Dee Dee's finger as she tapped it twice. "Mm-hmm," she mumbled ambiguously, with an arch of her brows, before lifting her heavy frame out of the chair. Without a word or glance back at Dee Dee, she made her way down the length of the table to the side of the framed glass. Both women's reflections stared back at her as she took hold of the cord affixed to the blinds, and with a small, understanding smile, gave a tug. Noisily, the blinds fell, and even before they settled into silence, Lydia spun around and rushed back to her seat. Grabbing the ink pen as she plopped down, she scrawled across the top sheet of paper on the legal pad, _Intercom sill on. Three agents, shrink listening_.

Dee Dee nodded once and wet her lips with a slide of her tongue, as Lydia passed the pen to her. The ballpoint shook in her hand. It had been almost six years since she'd consciously spoken out, spoken up. Old habits died hard, as they said, just like bad habits were hard to break. And in Elian's opinion, willfulness had always topped the list of her bad habits. He'd tried to threaten it out of her, beat it out of her… And she knew he believed he'd finally succeeded.

And maybe he had, at least behind the locked bedroom door in Coral Gables.

_Elian can't know,_ she scribbled quickly, and then dropped the pen as if it had burst into flames.

Lydia sighed. _He won't_, she wrote beneath Dee Dee's demand, before handing off the pen again.

Their stares locked, both unblinking, both expressions drawn. She had nice eyes, Dee Dee decided, kind eyes. The same sincerity that she'd seen far too late in Thomas Landry's eyes radiated from hers, sparking in them, and she decided—maybe foolishly—that she should trust them.

Breathing out shakily, she pressed the tip of the pen against the paper, hesitating for a moment before her willfulness reclaimed its strength. Digging deep into the paper, she drew an arrow to the top corner, pointing to the five-by-seven photograph of Thomas Landry that still lay face-up and exposed in front of the woman. And then beneath the thick line scribbled, _I know_.

Their stares met again, Lydia spiking an eyebrow as her lips wrinkled into a frown. Taking the pen back, she scrawled through the thick line of the arrow's base, _Give me a name_.

Dee Dee shook her head, her eyes narrowing. The woman had been right before, she didn't need to have procedures outlined for her in order to remember them. The system's rules still clung to the back of her memories, co-existing with unforgettable tidbits of her former life.

Grabbing hold of the pen, she wrote beneath Lydia's request, _Deal first_.

Lydia chuckled breathily, shaking her head. In the arc of her smile, Dee Dee thought she detected pride, and her assumption was confirmed as Lydia whispered, "I had a feeling you were still in there. Welcome home, Ms. McCall."

Impatiently, Dee Dee flicked a finger against the tablet. Screw reunions and assumptions being proven as fact. She wasn't doing anything noble; she was willingly being stupid. But she didn't care; she wasn't afraid. She would rather face stupidity's consequences than the consequences that would come from bowing down to Elian one more time.

_Spell it out_, Lydia wrote, before exaggeratingly clearing her throat and then saying louder than necessary, "Now, come on Mrs. Sandoval. We spent all night in this room. I really don't think either one of us wants to spend all day in here, too. So, why don't you put the deaf-mute act to rest once and for all? Talk to me, then maybe we can both get a little rest."

Dee Dee squeezed the smooth base of the ink pen between her fingers, tightening and then easing her grip. Swallowing her fear, the inference of her tenacity, she wrote slowly, carefully, _Check private airstrips. Colombia. Marcus Rivera. Isabel Ramirez. FIND. THEM_.

Lydia read over the message, her gaze following it from start to finish three times before it lifted to meet Dee Dee's. Pursing her lips, she took the pen and twirled it between her fingers like a majorette leading a marching band. With a sigh, she tapped the ink-splotched tip twice against the paper, before writing, _They my killers?_

With a hard shake of her head, Dee Dee grabbed the pen back and drew two, dark lines beneath _FIND_ and then _THEM_. A glare darkened her eyes as she tossed the pen back in front of the woman and then pressed a fingertip over each word to reinforce its importance.

_Why them?_ Lydia scribbled.

Dee Dee reached for the pen, her hand stopping above it. Hovering. She was about to go all in, over her head, and there would be no turning back. If her betrayal was made public, Elian wouldn't bother with threats. There would be no forgiveness, no opportunity to even try to earn it. She was personally finishing the job he'd started by taking the last shovelfuls of dirt out of the hole that would become her grave.

She understood it, and she wasn't afraid. Not of death, at least.

Taking the pen, pulling the tablet closer, she pressed the tip beneath Lydia's last question. She began to write, slowly and precisely, a nervous breath accompanying each curve that she made. Looking up, looking into the eyes again and searching for the kindness—the trustworthiness—she'd convinced herself they possessed, she pushed the tablet back to Lydia.

_They have my daughter_.


	11. Chapter 11

**ELEVEN**

Hunter stared down his own reflection in the mirror, the blinds that had dropped robbing him of the sight he hadn't yet fully comprehended.

Her. Close. Finally. _Dee Dee_.

He blinked, concentrating on the image in front of him as carefully as he'd dissected Dee Dee's changed—but, thankfully, still familiar—one. Damn it, he looked old. Without him realizing it, Atlas had taken the liberty of using his face as a roadmap. Lines were etched into his skin, shooting out from the corners of his eyes and lips, appearing in his chin when he frowned.

And he always frowned.

At some point, it had begun to feel more natural than smiling.

Still staring at the face in front of him, the thought came to him—what would Dee Dee think when she saw him for the first time? Would she think the years had beaten him down, or would she be able to understand why he'd let them? It wasn't that he'd ever wanted to lose sight of the joy in his life—his job, family, friends, and the cliché of his good health. He felt grateful for all of those things; he tried to, at least. But he'd also become selfish, adopting the mindset that if he couldn't have everything that made him the happiest, what good was having just a portion of it? All or nothing was the motto he lived by, the motto that was still in play in his overly frenzied brain.

"What the hell is going on?" Charlie croaked beside him, turning away from the mirror and facing Riley Porter. "Why'd she drop the blinds?"

Porter's brows dipped, the frown that he'd been wearing so prevalently deepening. "I don't know," he answered. "But it's something, something bigger than we've gotten so far. I know Lydia, and she wouldn't have done it if there wasn't a good reason for it."

"I don't hear anything," Charlie pressed, leaning his head closer to the mirror. "Can she turn off the intercom from inside?"

Porter nodded once, still studying the beige-colored blinds as Lydia Ortiz's voice echoed suddenly through the intercom, _"Now, come on Mrs. Sandoval. We spent all night in this room. I really don't think either one of us wants to spend all day in here, too. So, why don't you put the deaf-mute act to rest once and for all? Talk to me, then maybe we can both get a little rest."_ With a sigh, he nodded toward the two-way mirror again. "Something's up, because Lydia's trying too hard to make us think nothing is." He smiled faintly, through a shake of his head. "She might be a good agent, but she isn't much of an actor."

"She called her Mrs. Sandoval," Charlie said.

"That was the plan," Porter responded. "To push everything we know in Dee Dee's face. It's to see how she reacts. We've all been in the business long enough to know that initial reactions are usually the most honest."

"In other words, you're trying to catch her in a lie?" Charlie asked, his voice tight.

What little of a smile Porter had managed sank back into a frown. "A lie, the truth, it'd be nice at this point to catch her telling either. But unfortunately, she has to say something in order for us to do that, and that seems to be the one thing Dee Dee doesn't seem to be in a rush to do."

**xxx**

_If Elian finds out_—

Lydia grabbed hold of the corner of the tablet, ripping it out from under Dee Dee's hand. After giving it a hard shove that sent it sliding to the edge of the table, she jumped to her feet and made a fast trek to the two-way mirror. Switching the intercom system from 'on' to 'off' with the flick of a switch, she spun back around, her expression hardened and eyes screaming impatience as she faced down a stone-faced Dee Dee.

"_Daughter_?" she hissed, her nostrils flaring despite the pinch of her eyeglasses. Over the top of the rims, she glanced at the clock on the far wall. "How long has she been on the lam with this Marcus Rivera and Isabel Ramirez? Long enough that they really could have made it to Colombia?"

Dee Dee pressed her lips together, hesitating. But she didn't drop her gaze from Lydia's angry stare; she didn't try to hide from it. She deserved it—the anger and misunderstanding and doubt. She deserved all of it. It was just that she'd forgotten know how to contend with it coming from anyone other than Elian.

"Talk to me!" Lydia snapped, landing a fist on top of the table, jarring the structure. "You're safe now! The bastard can't get to you; he can't hurt you! So, if this really is your daughter we're talking about, act like her mother and don't let him hurt her, either!"

_He can't get to you. He can't hurt you_.

Dee Dee wanted to laugh at the woman's naivety. She wanted to call her out on it, because she knew the truth: there wasn't anywhere or anyone out of reach of Elian's power and influence.

Lydia sighed, leaning over the table on stiffened arms. "Damn it, come on. I know you're scared—"

"I'm not scared of him."

Both sets of eyes widened, Dee Dee's voice slicing the limited, tension-packed space that separated the women. It emerged soft but certain, filled with as much reluctance as resignation.

Dee Dee swept a hand through the top of her hair, messily scattering the strands. "I'm not…afraid of…him," she repeated. "At least, I'm not afraid of what he'll do to me. But my daughter…if he finds out I told anyone about her, he'll make her disappear for good—forever. No one will ever find her." She cocked a brow. "And that includes the FBI."

Lydia sighed again, louder, heavier, and plopped down in the chair she'd so quickly vacated minutes earlier. "Okay…" she said, grabbing the tablet from the edge of the table and pulling it back in front of her. "Why do you think he'd send your daughter to Colombia?"

Dee Dee lifted a shoulder in a crooked shrug. "He's been planning to return there, to…live." She licked her lips, shrugging again. "Elian grew up in Colombia, in, uh, in Santa Maria. His mother still lives there." She closed her eyes fleetingly, thinking. "Ava Maria Sandoval and…Christina—Christina Ramirez. She's Elians half-sister, Isabel's mother. But she doesn't live in Santa Maria. She's in, uh. Bogotá."

"So, this Isabel Ramirez is Sandoval's niece?"

Dee Dee nodded once, hurriedly. "Elian brought her to the states."

"And Rivera?" Lydia pressed, recording each tidbit of information Dee Dee offered onto the paper.

"Marcus works for Elian," Dee Dee answered. "Since I've, uh. Since I've…been…in Coral Gables. He's with me a lot, acts as my…my, uh…bodyguard."

"Bodyguard or guard?" Lydia questioned, arching a brow. "You ask me, there's a big difference between the two."

Dee Dee answered with a sigh and shake of her head. "Neither Marcus nor Isabel will hurt Avi. I know they won't. But they will follow Elian's orders. They'll take her to Colombia, and they'll keep her there until Elian tells them to bring her back—if he tells them to."

"Avi?" Lydia posed, the tip of the pen hovering above the tablet. "A-V-I?"

Dee Dee took in a deep breath, releasing the air slowly, hesitatingly. "Avi, uh—Ava Sophia. She's four."

"Ava Sophia," Lydia repeated softly, with a smile. "Pretty name."

"Elian thinks so," Dee Dee responded flatly, emotionlessly. "He named her after his mother."

Lydia cleared her throat. "So, your daughter? She's, uh…she's…I mean, I have to ask. She's Sandoval's and yours—together?"

"Yes," Dee Dee answered quickly, adamantly. She twisted her hands together in her lap, wringing them nervously, impatiently. Avi was her daughter, she was Elian's, but most of all, she was Isabel's. Not by Dee Dee's choosing, not even by Isabel's, but once again by Elian's.

As one more means of controlling her, of taking from her.

"I need descriptions of all three," Lydia said. "Pictures if you have them."

Dee Dee smiled faintly, through a shake of her head. "I don't, um." She shrugged weakly, almost unnoticeably. "At the house, there're pictures. But I can give descriptions to a sketch artist."

"A sketch artist, right." Lydia nodded sternly, before climbing out of her chair. "I guess no one gave you the opportunity to grab a purse or any personal effects last night, did they?"

As the woman disappeared through the door, leaving Dee Dee alone for the second time, a much-needed time, she sank back in the chair. It wouldn't matter if she'd been given time to pack up every item inside of the coral cell, she still wouldn't be able to provide what the woman had asked for. Because the fact was, her daughter wasn't really hers.

She was merely one more puppet whose strings Elian controlled.

**xxx**

The agent Porter had called Ortiz pulled the door to the interrogation room closed at the same moment the elevator doors slid open and Gideon Stanton barreled into the corridor. Both passed a steely glance to the other, before redirecting their sights on the three men standing silently and expectantly in front of the blocked two-way mirror.

"Great," Porter sighed under his breath, as Stanton picked up his pace. "Hunter, do us all a favor, okay? This time, keep your mouth shut."

Hunter shot a glare at Porter, before transferring it to Stanton. _Screw them_. He'd kept his mouth closed for too long and only because it was what they'd told him he had to do. But he'd be damned before he let the Feds start calling the shots again for either Dee Dee or him. This time, the only rules he would bide by were his own.

"Porter, I thought I told you I wanted Mrs. Sandoval locked up!" Stanton hissed, coming to a stop in front of Riley Porter. "It's one o'clock. You want to tell me why that hasn't happened yet?"

"Lock her up?" Lydia Ortiz spit, her eyes widening over the top rims of her glasses. "Did you go off your meds again, Gideon? That's the craziest idea I've heard."

Hunter stifled a laugh, as he soaked in the sight of the rigid woman facing down an equally inflexible Gideon Stanton. He didn't know her but he got the feeling that it wouldn't take long to like her. With her no-frills appearance, apparently no-nonsense attitude, and wearing a go-to-hell expression, she seemed real to him. Not as much like a stuffed suit, emotionally handicapped Fed, but far more like a human being.

"This isn't your jurisdiction, Ortiz," Stanton barked. "Back off."

"It isn't my—" Ortiz laughed loudly, abrasively, as she pointed a finger at the two-way mirror. "I spent all night with her. Begging her to talk to me, getting nothing but a cold shoulder for my time and trouble. This _is_ my jurisdiction, Gideon. It's sure as hell a lot more mine than it is yours."

"You spent the whole night with her, yeah," Stanton argued. "And where in the hell has that gotten us? Face it, Ortiz, you haven't done your job, you went soft on her instead."

"Soft?" Lydia asked. "If I push any harder we'll lose her for good. She's so scared and confused right now she doesn't know which way is up." She shook her head, knotting her bulky arms over her chest as her gaze shifted to Porter. "You want my opinion? What we're dealing with is a classic case of mind control, one for the textbooks. She doesn't know what to think right now because that bastard Sandoval hasn't told her what she's supposed to think. And if she doesn't know what to think, she sure as hell can't figure out what to say."

"Mind control…" Stanton scoffed, rolling his eyes. "Last I knew your name was Ortiz not Freud. So, don't start making diagnoses you can't back up."

"You don't have to back up common sense," Lydia growled. She laughed softly, angrily. "Christ's sake, Gideon, just once could you try digging down deep enough in that stone soul of yours to see if there's a little compassion hiding in there?"

"How about for once you do your damned job?" Stanton countered, before turning his attention on Porter. "And that goes for you, too. Lock her up."

"The hell you will." Hunter heard the voice, deep and convicted, before he realized it was his. He shook his head, looking to Charlie for support. "Let me talk to her." Christ. What did he just say—he would talk to her? _Her? _The butterflies occupying his gut suddenly turned into a swarm of angry wasps. There wasn't anything he wanted more—anything he wanted less—than to break through the door to the interrogation room and swallow Dee Dee in his arms. But the truth that was cramping his stomach was that he didn't have an idea in hell how to approach her. Someone whom he'd once found easier than anyone else to talk to, he couldn't think of how to start a conversation with. Should he touch her, or would she want him to keep his distance? Should he smile, or should he cry with her instead? He didn't know how to begin what he'd spent years praying for the chance to restart. Because as much as he didn't want to admit it, the woman he'd seen through the mirror wasn't familiar. Maybe somewhere in her outer layer he'd spotted something recognizable, but the rest of it—the rest of her—had been foreign. From the sadness in her eyes to the way her mouth naturally drew into a frown, to the way she moved so hesitantly, with so much uncertainty.

_He didn't know her_.

But he knew there would be no way he could walk away until he found out if she would let him know her again.

"The hell you will," Stanton spit back, a finger aimed at Hunter. "If anyone is outside of their jurisdiction, hotshot, it's you."

"It's McCall," Hunter snarled. "I knew her better than anyone."

"Past tense!" Stanton returned. "You _knew_ Dee Dee McCall. But face the facts, Dee Dee McCall isn't who we're dealing with here." He pointed at the two-way mirror again. "Inside that room is Mrs. Elian Sandoval, and if she doesn't want to cooperate, that's her choice. But our choice is to treat her like any other criminal. And that means sticking her in lockup until she realizes our choice is the only one she has."

"Do that, you jackass, and you'll lose her for good," Lydia seethed.

"How long have you been with this bureau, Ortiz?" Stanton scoffed. "The woman is playing us—_that's_ your textbook case. She's married to one of the biggest drug traffickers in the world, for God's sake. You ask me, that fact alone makes her look pretty damn guilty. I mean, for all we know she's Sandoval's partner in crime. It happens all the time, right? A good cop falls victim to the almighty dollar and starts playing for the more lucrative team?"

Lydia laughed loudly, brusquely. "You're certifiable. That woman isn't a drug trafficker, or supplier, _or_ user. She's a victim, Gideon—Elian Sandoval's victim."

"She's jerking us around," Stanton argued.

"She's scared," Lydia countered. "Scared of him, scared of herself, and scared of us. And you want to know why? It's because _she's_ the one who's been jerked around. God only knows the hell she's been through."

Hunter found himself stumbling backwards through one step, two, three… The unspoken details of what Dee Dee had endured fueling his unsteady movements. It wasn't that he hadn't thought about it, it was that he'd tried like hell not to. Once he saw the ripped and bloody clothing that had been found in the house in Malibu, he'd put his full concentration into ignorance—about abuse, torture, depravity. And when thoughts—the damned visions—crept into his mind and began to battle his forced ignorance for control, he concentrated even harder.

He didn't forget. He could never forget.

He just pretended not to know what experience and training eradicated all doubt about.

Hunter removed himself completely from the ensuing argument, stepping around Charlie and beginning to inch his way toward the interrogation room door. He would get Dee Dee to talk; he knew that—eventually, at least—he could. And even if he couldn't, it wouldn't matter. What mattered and what he needed most was what he'd missed the most—her. Seeing her, being near her, the sound of her voice, unpredictability of her wit, depth of her compassion, and boundlessness of her loyalty. He wouldn't be selfish and expect to get all of her back, but the need for at least some of her—any part of her—made it feel impossible to wait even a second longer. Gideon Stanton and his threats could be damned as far as he was concerned.

"Don't take another step, Hunter!" Stanton barked, his stiffened finger taking aim at Hunter. "If you want to keep your job, I suggest you get the hell back to California! She's not your partner anymore!"

"You son of a bitch!" Hunter bellowed, spinning around with his fists doubled and mind convinced to fight. Some bonds could get broken, but others never could no matter how hard unbelievable circumstances tried to do the job. And a partnership—a union that life and death defined—was one of those unbreakable bonds. It was the bond that, deep down, he knew would, somehow, always find a way to exist between Dee Dee and him.

"Hunter!" Porter said, stepping in front of Hunter and acting as a blockade between Stanton and him. "Calm down. You get yourself kicked out and no one's going to let you back in again. Then what happens to Dee Dee? Think about her, will you?"

Hunter bristled as Charlie's hand closed around his arm, the captain nodding in agreement with Porter's mandate. _Think about Dee Dee_. Not about what the bastard Sandoval had done to her, not about what the stuffed suits wanted to do to her, but about _her_.

"Get him out of here," Stanton grumbled, directing a snarl at Hunter. "And get Mrs. Sandoval processed, Ortiz. There's no reason why lockup shouldn't be a family affair for her husband and her."

**xxx**

_"We'll call her Ava after my mother. It's a good name, a strong name. A name that should be carried on."_

Dee Dee slouched in the chair, her elbows propped on top of the table and face buried in her hands. She closed her eyes, breathing in, breathing out, concentrating on the silence's echo whirling around her. In her mind, she traveled backwards. What felt like both yesterday and a lifetime ago. She could almost feel the pain tearing at her abdomen, the sweat soaking her body, and she did feel the newest wave of tears as they stung the backs of her eyes. And then in the distance where her most cherished memories were locked away for safekeeping, she heard her daughter's cries—weak and impatient. She watched tiny arms and legs flail, saw the head of jet black hair, and stared with wonderment into the eyes that were as black as night.

_"Let me hold her. Please. I want to hold her."_

She felt the ache in her arms again as they remained empty, and she saw Elian's smile, intentionally cold, victoriously smug.

_"Please. Let me hold her."_

The silence rained down on her as the immature cries ceased and hers emerged soundlessly.

_"You need your rest, Dee Dee. You've had a long day, a hard day. Isabel will care for Ava. As I told you, the child will be her responsibility."_

She saw the bedroom door open and then close, locking her in again, locking out the only thing in Elian's world that was a part of her. The one thing that should have been hers to keep, but instead, was taken away just like everything else.

**xxx**

His blood was boiling, heating his skin, making it hard to stand still, impossible to think.

For over fifteen minutes he'd stood on the sidelines staring at Porter's and the agent called Ortiz's backs, as they huddled together, whispered, shared information that, damn it, he should know before anyone else. Then Porter whipped out his phone, whispered into the damn thing like he was undercover in enemy territory and afraid of getting made. He'd nodded, shook his head, looked to Ortiz for confirmation, but he'd never once looked in Hunter's direction. He hadn't given a single thumbs up, thumbs down, or even shot the fucking bird. He'd just whispered, out of earshot, pushing Hunter even farther out onto the sidelines.

"Who the hell is that?"

With Hunter's question, Lydia Ortiz glanced back over her shoulder toward the interrogation room door. Riley Porter shoved the barrier open before motioning for the freshest, unfamiliar stuffed suit to go inside ahead of him. The man was tall and lanky, wearing glasses that resembled the bottoms of pop bottles and carrying a toolbox-size black box.

"Elton Jeffries," Lydia announced, turning back to face Hunter and Charlie. "Sketch artist."

"Sketch artist?" Charlie posed, arching a brow.

Lydia pulled in a whistling breath through her nose, shooting a glance at the blind-covered window to her right. "Ms. McCall finally did a little talking," she admitted. "She, uh. She gave me the names of a couple of Sandoval's employees who might be trying to sneak out of the country. I asked her if she'd be willing to give descriptions to a sketch artist."

"Thanks." Hunter nodded in the stout woman's direction. "For calling her Ms. McCall instead of Mrs. Sandoval. Thanks for that."

Lydia nodded in response, knotting her arms over her chest as she gave Hunter a critical once-over. Her painted lips twisted to the side and an eyebrow spiked, as she muttered a suspicious, "Mm-hmm," under her breath. "So?" she finally said, garnering both Charlie's and Hunter's attention, even though her focus remained intent on Hunter. "You're obviously not FBI, so what's your stake in this? Why are you hanging around, and more importantly, how in the hell did you even make it past security and get into the building?"

"Personal invite," Hunter grumbled.

"Mm-hmm," Lydia muttered again, still with noticeable suspicion. "A personal one, huh? Well. From what I saw a few minutes ago, you didn't seem to cozy up all that nicely to Gideon. Guess that means your invite came from Riley?"

Hunter nodded once, stiffly. "In a roundabout way."

Lydia pursed her lips thoughtfully, still studying Hunter's drawn face. "Still doesn't answer my other question. What's your stake in this?"

"Charles Devane," Charlie interjected, extending his right hand in Lydia's direction. As they shook, both with firm grips, he added, "Captain of the Homicide Division, Los Angeles, California."

"Homicide?" Lydia repeated, both eyebrows rising. She nodded as Charlie released her hand, her gaze shooting back to Hunter. "And you're—"

"Hunter. Lieutenant Rick Hunter," Hunter answered. "Dee Dee is…was—"

"Your partner," Lydia concluded through a nod. "She was your partner."

"Was, yeah," Hunter agreed gruffly.

"Mm-hmm. The two of you make a good team?"

"We thought so."

"They did," Charlie added sternly, with a sharp nod.

Lydia looked back and forth between the two men, her lips flattened into a straight line. "Partners," she finally mused. "It's been my experience you never get to know someone quite as well as you do your partner." Scraping the underside of her chin with her fingernails, she looked Hunter up and then down again. "Did she trust you?"

"With her life," Charlie answered.

"Good," Lydia remarked straightforwardly. "Trust that strong rarely leaves a person."

_Trust that strong_. Hunter grumbled to himself. There'd been a time when Dee Dee trusted him with her life, but that had been before he let it get stolen from both of them. He knew her then, knew—sickeningly—that throughout those first days she'd been gone, she would've been waiting for him. She would've expected him to work around the clock, to put in twenty-five hours every day if that's what it took to get his hands on one lead. She would've expected him to find her.

At first. In the beginning. When she still trusted him.

But six years were a long time to keep waiting, to hold onto faith.

Lydia shuffled from her right foot to left one, sneaking another glance at the two-way mirror. "You know…" she began, before clearing her throat. "Gideon Stanton is a fairly respected prick around here. For some reason, a lot of people who shouldn't listen to him do, and it seems to me that he ends up getting his way more times than he should. And that rings true if his way is the right way or the wrong way."

Hunter passed a glance to Charlie, confusion making a noticeable appearance on both men's faces. He knew that Riley Porter didn't have a lot of respect for Stanton; maybe he didn't even like the guy any more than Hunter did. But Porter also played by the rules of respect, which meant when talking behind someone's back, he hinted at his true feelings instead of making them blatant and unmistakable. But this one, this—what had she said her name was—Lynda? Lydia? She spoke her mind, even when the thoughts it formulated opposed everyone else's. And that made Hunter decide, once and for all, that he liked her. He liked her a hell of a lot more than any other stuffed suit that'd ever gotten in his way and butted into his business, at least.

"You know," Lydia continued, throwing a nod in the direction of the closed interrogation room door. "Prick or not, sometimes Stanton does actually manage to pull a thought out of his underdeveloped brain that makes sense to those of us who managed to evolve past the stage of walking on our knuckles."

"Yeah?" Hunter asked. "What out of any of the crap he's spouted so far do you think was even close to making sense?"

"What he said about you getting out of here," Lydia answered, matter of fact. "You ask me, that's the best idea Gideon's had in years."

Hunter shot a narrow-eyed glance at Charlie, before burning Lydia with a fiery stare. He should've known better than to let his guard down and actually start playing with the idea that anyone linked to the Federal Bureau of Investigation could be even somewhat human. They were robots, all of them. Trained to go through the motions without feeling a single emotion. It had to be a requirement of the job, Hunter decided. In order to become a stuffed suit, you first had to sell your soul to the devil.

"What?" Hunter asked with a brusque laugh. "You want us out of here so you can lock Dee Dee up, is that it? Get rid of the eyewitnesses, then you can do whatever the hell you want to her? Ship her off to Virginia so she can be analyzed like some kind of freak, or what? Maybe hide her away in some hole in the wall prison where no one will be able to find her again?" He shook his head, scoffing. "Don't you think she's been through enough already?"

"I don't know who put that chip on your shoulder, Lieutenant," Lydia growled through a sharp roll of her eyes, "but I'm pretty sure it wasn't me." She backed up a step, exhaling impatiently. "What I think is, that woman's been through more than anyone should have to go through in an entire lifetime, let alone six years. What it is exactly she's gone through, I don't know, and I'm sure as hell never going to figure it out if Gideon has his way and she gets stuck in some eight-by-ten cell." She pointed a pudgy finger at the shrouded, two-way mirror. "She won't be able to handle it, I can tell you that. The cell door slams shut, and she's going to fold up right into herself. And if that happens and she shuts down more than she already has, the only person she'll be any good to is Elian Sandoval."

"Then why do you want us to leave?" Charlie asked.

Lydia shrugged a shoulder, grumbling under her breath before answering, "Because you look tired, the both of you. And you know, to me, Ms. McCall looks like she's one step away from dropping from exhaustion." She shrugged again, lopsidedly. "So, what I'm thinking is, if you're on your way out anyway, why not offer her a ride?"

"Offer her…" Hunter choked out a laugh, the resonance raspy and disbelieving. "What the hell are you talking about?"

Lydia rolled her eyes, sighing as if Hunter and Charlie's obliviousness had managed to annihilate her last, surviving nerve. "Gideon was right about one thing, I'm no relative of Freud's. But at the same time, I don't need to be to know that woman won't survive five minutes behind bars." She shot a cautious glance over her shoulder, before continuing. "I don't know why Gideon has such a hard-on for Ms. McCall, but I do know him well enough to know that he doesn't back down when he wants something. And right now, what he wants most is to see her in a cell. So, get her out of here, hide her." She shrugged lazily, like her idea would be viewed as rational—maybe even possible—versus absurd. "You can't lock up what's not there, right?"

"Get her…out…" Hunter glanced, wide-eyed, at Charlie, before refocusing on Lydia. "We're in a Federal building, Ortiz. There are hundreds of Federal agents—_armed_ Federal agents—crawling all over this place. And you want us to just walk Dee Dee out of here like we're stepping outside for a breath of fresh air?" He laughed harshly, incredulously. "I don't know who's crazier, Stanton or you."

"Like that's something that actually needs to be questioned," Lydia answered dryly, through a roll of her eyes. "But that's beside the point."

"What exactly is the point?" Charlie threw in. "To get Hunter and myself locked up alongside McCall?"

"My point is," Lydia returned snappishly, "and pardon my not so funny pun, not to let that woman get screwed by anyone else. And for whatever reason, that's exactly what Gideon is trying to do to her." She arched her brows, her stare darting back and forth between the apprehensive-looking men. "So, what? Did you make the trip all the way from California just to stare at her for a few minutes through a window and then walk away? Is that the sum total of your responsibility to her?"

Hunter choked down Lydia's biting question, his gaze dropping. Not out of shame particularly, not even out of guilt. But in an attempt to hide his agreement with Ortiz's half-baked idea from a lowly grumbling and openly disagreeing Charlie. It was a stupid idea; he knew it just like Charlie and Ortiz did. It was an idea that could end all of their careers, and like the captain had pointed out, get them locked up in a cell that the key to would be thrown away. But knowing that, understanding it, he still couldn't stop his internal scale of decisiveness from tipping in Dee Dee's favor. Watching her through the two-way mirror had made his entire body ache with pity while at the same time his mind began to rage. He'd never seen her—never seen anyone—look so lost, or like they felt so out of place. He'd never seen anyone look so vulnerable. And all of it made only one conclusion possible: that Ortiz was right. If they stuck Dee Dee in a cell, they would lose her for good—completely and irrevocably.

And Hunter wasn't willing to let that happen.

Not when he'd just gotten his first grasp in six years on the hope of getting her back.

"She knows she needs help," Lydia persisted. "I think she even wants it. She just doesn't know how to ask for it without first getting the bastard's permission."

Hunter looked up quickly. It wasn't Dee Dee in that room, he had to keep reminding himself of that. The woman in the room, he didn't know how to be in the presence of or start a conversation with. He didn't know what could be said even more than what should be said.

I missed you.

I looked for you.

I never wanted to give up.

I _tried_.

Everything sounded so damned contrite. It all sounded rehearsed and expected, unemotional dialogue between two strangers. And it scared the hell out of him wondering if he did say any of it, how the stranger he would say it to would react?

"Out of the two of you," Lydia continued, startling Hunter out of his thoughts, "who do you think she'd warm up to the fastest?"

"Hunter," Charlie responded immediately, without hesitation.

"Well, then. Guess that eliminates the need to draw straws." She flashed a crooked grin, the corners of her lips trembling with both uncertainty and trepidation. "Okay, here's the plan. Captain, I'm going to give you my parking pass. Security watches the back lot like hawks, so you'll need it. Get your car, pull it around back, flash the pass at the guard, then drive on through the gates like you know what you're doing and you're supposed to be doing it." She nodded once, sternly. "On the far side of the building there's a door. Park as close to it as you can, turn off the engine and wait for us."

Charlie turned toward Hunter, nodding as their stares met. With the hint of a smile and liveliness creeping into his eyes, he squeezed a hand around Hunter's shoulder. "It's your call," he said. "Retirement has one of my feet dragged out of the door already, but you still have some good years ahead of you. If you think it's too much to risk—"

"Get the car," Hunter interrupted, digging into his pocket as Charlie's hand fell away from his shoulder. Retrieving the car keys, he dropped them into the captain's outstretched hand. "Retirement is close for you," he said. "You have a pension to think about. Go back to LA, Charlie. I can handle this on my own."

Charlie took the keys from him, closing them in his palm. "Unless I'm mistaken, I'm still your captain. That means I give the orders, Lieutenant."

Hunter laughed softly, nervously. "I'll get her out there as quick as I can."

"I'll wait as long as Dee Dee needs me to," Charlie responded. He turned away from Hunter, once again extending his hand toward Lydia, whispering, "Thank you," as she slid her hand into his.

"If we pull this off, thank me then," Lydia said. "And if we get caught and end up standing in front of a judge, thank me by forgetting this was my half-baked idea." She chuckled, giving the captain's hand a squeeze before their grips released.

Charlie shot another glance at Hunter, nodding, before turning and starting off down the hallway. "Even if we do manage to get Dee Dee out of here, then what?" Hunter asked Lydia, as the captain disappeared from sight. "Five minutes after we're out the door, they'll have an APB out on us."

"They will," Lydia agreed, matter of fact. "So, that means we have to be a hell of a lot sneakier than they'll be." She stepped in closer, tilting her head toward him. "My grandmother left me her bungalow in Coconut Grove. It's not far from here so that doesn't make it the ideal hiding spot, but right now, I think it's safer than checking into a hotel."

"Coconut Grove?"

"Suburb," Lydia answered. "I'll give you directions and the address. The bungalow is on the outskirts of town, part of a quiet neighborhood that doesn't get much traffic. My grandmother's name is still on the property so it'll be tough to trace the residence back to me, and family and friends stay there from time to time which means neighbors won't think it's suspicious to see lights on."

"You think it'll be safe?"

"Safest place we have at the moment," Lydia confirmed. "Just get inside quick, lock the door behind you, and keep yourself and Ms. McCall away from the windows and out of sight. Even though the neighbors might not think it's suspicious to see someone using the place, that doesn't mean some of them aren't nosy."

"What about staying in touch? It'll be too risky to use a house phone or cells."

"Thought about that," Lydia responded. "A couple miles from the house there's a grocery store. Just one of those little, corner markets. There's a payphone. We'll make a schedule, set up times to call each other."

Hunter nodded, his gaze once again shifting toward the two-way mirror. It all sounded so easy—get to Dee Dee, get out, stay hidden. At least it sounded easy when his mind replayed the plan in Ortiz's voice. She seemed confident, and Hunter wished he felt that way, too. But the first hurdle—getting to Dee Dee—was the one he was the most nervous about. It was the one he didn't know if he had the strength to approach let alone clear.

Getting to Dee Dee.

Gaining her trust.

Convincing her to give trusting him one more try.

"Hey," Lydia said, her voice soft, comprised of understanding. "Don't quit on me now. Not before we've even gotten started."

Hunter pulled in a shaky breath as the door to the interrogation room opened, Porter and the agent Ortiz had called Jeffries stepping outside. Porter shot a glance in his direction, a frown accompanying it, before turning his back and taking off down the hallway with the other man.

"Looks like that's our cue," Lydia said. "We need to do this quick, while we have a few minutes alone with her. It won't be long before the monkey section fills up again."

Hunter gave his ambiguous agreement through a wobbly nod. It felt like he'd spent his entire life dreaming about that moment. When he would see Dee Dee again, be able to touch her, talk to her, look into her eyes, the moment when he could finally apologize for what there weren't enough apologies to ever make right. But in his dreams, it was easy; it was them again. He didn't feel so nervous and tongue-tied, so damned afraid. He didn't have to, because it was always the old Hunter reuniting with the old McCall. He walked straight into her arms, and she welcomed him there. But he'd never thought about—he'd never _let_ himself think about—how different they both would be when his dream finally became reality.

And maybe that was because after a while, he'd forced himself to accept that dreaming about her was the most of her that he would ever have back.

"It's going to be okay," Lydia said, crashing through Hunter's thoughts, startling him. "She's still in there, you know. Somewhere. We just have to find her." She smiled, dropping a hand down on his shoulder. "So. The two of you were partners; you were a good team. That means you had to have been pretty close, right? Crossed over the line to friendship?"

"Good friends," Hunter confirmed weakly. "Best friends."

"Then go in there and get her back. Don't let that bastard keep her forever, and don't let the FBI get their hands on her at all."

"Get her back…" he mumbled. "You want to tell me how I'm supposed to do that?"

"Going through that door is a good place to start," Lydia answered simply, with a shrug. "And after that, just be her friend again. Seems to me she's in desperate need of one of those right now."


	12. Chapter 12

**TWELVE**

The few steps that delivered Hunter to the interrogation room seemed to stretch for miles. More than he could count, far more than he felt like he could stay upright through. Beneath him, his legs shook, inside his chest, his heart hammered. He couldn't breathe, couldn't think, and couldn't seem to move without the persistent pushes from Lydia Ortiz.

"You can do this," the agent whispered, as she gripped the door handle and gave it a twist, leaving the barrier to glide open. "You have to do it."

_He could do it. He had to_— He leaned back into the supportive hand pressing against his back, letting the task of supporting him fall on Lydia as his eyes locked with the emotionally dulled ones inside of the room. He found himself speeding through the tunnel of smoke again, the walls of the tiny room closing in around him. In front of him, seated at the end of the table, Dee Dee's eyes widened and lips gaped, tears instantly setting her eyes aglow. _Oh, Jesus_. He wanted to run to her. To touch her, feel her—anything she would give him just so he could convince himself that she was real.

Hunter stepped over the threshold, stopping abruptly as Dee Dee jumped to her feet. The chair shot out behind her, the metal tips on the legs squealing atop the tile floor. She staggered backwards, her arms twisting shakily across her chest as she shook her head, before turning her back to her attentive audience and hurrying to the back of the room. Rushing up to the wall, she slammed herself into it, thumping her forehead against the hard stone, whimpering, shattering what little remained of Hunter's hopefulness.

"Don't back out now," Lydia urged, giving another, harder push to Hunter's back. "I can't do this all by myself, and she sure as hell can't, either."

Hunter flattened a hand over his stomach, the swarm of wasps in his gut suddenly revolting violently. Bile sneaked up his throat, burning, causing his eyes to tear, and he fought down a swallow of pure fire as Lydia whispered against the side of his face, "If you give up on her, who else does she have?"

"Maybe she needs more time," he croaked around another, fiery swallow. "She probably needs…more…time…"

"More time? What, six years isn't enough?"

Hunter shook his head weakly, helplessly, and brushed away the tears that had dropped onto his cheeks. He didn't want to quit, not on Lydia, himself, especially not on Dee Dee. But he didn't know how to find the person he needed to find in the distrusting eyes across the room. The space inside of the damned tunnel he'd gotten stuck in had hollowed, making every breath echo and each one of Dee Dee's whispered whimpers reach his ears with deafening force. Hesitantly, he took another step forward, and another, his heart stopping as Lydia slid inside behind him and pushed the door closed.

"Dee Dee…" he managed to choke, his voice breaking as her dark stare swallowed him.

"There you go," Lynda coaxed. "That's it. You got this."

That was when Hunter noticed the differences; they were subtle but still surprising. Although he didn't know why they surprised him.

After all, people changed.

And they seemed to change the most when you weren't there to witness it taking place.

Her figure had a few more curves to it, and her skin was tanned—sun-kissed was the description that, oddly, came to mind. Her face looked older to him, but not in an aged sort of way, more tired. And her hair was longer than he remembered her ever wearing it. Hanging straight down her back, thick, and darker than his memory saw it.

Hunter looked her up, down, critically, with awe. She looked good, just like Porter had said. Physically, she looked healthy, and he supposed he should feel grateful to someone for that. It was her eyes, though, that kept drawing him in. Dark, frightened—haunted was the newest description that his mind settled on. They made it painfully clear that she wasn't healthy; she wasn't his old Dee Dee any more.

And he would make damn sure that someone paid for that.

**xxx**

She hadn't said his name in almost six years.

She'd tried not to think about him, because when she did, it was his death that played out in her mind. It was her guilt that kept it alive, vivid.

_"Your family will die—your mother, your father! And there will be even more people if you don't learn to follow instructions! That partner of yours, he will be next!" _

She couldn't see him. Part of her wanted to, part of her was happy that she couldn't. The tears were too thick, blurring her vision. But in her mind, his face was clear—deathly pale with empty, lifeless eyes.

"Dee Dee? Dee Dee, it's okay. Everything's going to be okay."

Her sight cleared with the sound of his voice, and he came into focus. Older than her mind remembered him, but alive—full of life. _Still alive_. And she'd spent so many years mourning him, burying him over and over in her guilty conscience.

"I want to help you," he said, his voice reaching her ears sounding rough, unsure. "Let me help you. Okay?"

She immediately looked to the woman who'd made the same promise—_"We'll get your daughter back, don't you worry, Ms. McCall,"_ –and then Riley Porter promised her next. But it was only because none of them understood what they were up against. Power, influence and intimidation was what Elian subsisted on—frightening, bullying, hurting. His target was never a consideration. If he felt threatened or treated unfairly, they were the only excuses he needed to lash out, to hurt.

He was a predator, and to him, everyone else was acceptable prey.

_"You shouldn't be naïve enough to believe that everything that could be taken from you has been, because if you force me to, I'll prove you wrong. I'll take everything—your parents, those friends you keep referring to. Anyone and anything that's ever mattered to you will be gone, and it will because of you—only you."_

Dee Dee glanced at the ceiling, at each of the four corners in the room. Elian's voice was so loud, so damned consuming that she expected to find him there. Watching her, judging her, waiting for her to make her next mistake.

"Everything's okay."

He startled her, her breath hitched. In front of her, he was nodding, wanting her to believe him, she could tell.

"Charlie's here, too," he continued, his voice as shaky. "He's here, and we're, uh. We're going to help you. Okay? We're going to take you out of here, take you somewhere safe."

Dee Dee's eyes widened, her stare targeting Lydia. She shook her head, hard and fast, as afraid of the idea of leaving as opposed to it.

"I need you to listen to the man, Ms. McCall," Lydia interjected, nodding. "You stick around here, the only thing that'll happen is you'll get yourself stuck away in some cell. That's the plan right now, the plan that your old partner here and I are trying to make sure doesn't work out."

_The plan_. Riley Porter had said the plan was to find her daughter—it was what the woman originally said, too. So, she'd done what they asked and given them descriptions, detailing hair colors, eye colors, guessing at heights and weights. She even remembered Lily, the nearly worn out, threadbare rag doll that Avi always had with her. They couldn't forget Lily, she'd told Riley Porter. And she believed him when he said they wouldn't.

"No." Her voice emerged as a whisper, sounding strangled, weak, and his eyes instantly bugged, tears taking hold of them. "I have to… Elian. I need to talk to him." She breathed out shakily, her own tears heating her cheeks. "Please. Let me talk to Elian."

"Talk to Elian?" Lydia responded, sounding impatient. "And just what do you think that'll help?"

Talking to Elian never helped, Dee Dee silently answered, because, in his opinion, she never had anything important to say. He had said it to her over and over; enough times that she'd learned to believe it. "I have to talk to him," she repeated.

"That's not gonna be possible," the woman answered simply. "It can't happen." She pulled off her glasses, sticking one earpiece into her mouth. "The way it is, you only have two choices. You can keep sitting around here waiting until a few insensitive pricks get their way and someone finally hauls you to lockup, or you can trust your old partner here just like you used to do back in your heyday. You go with him, stay underground until things cool off a little, and in the end—God willing—you get your freedom back." She shook her head, shoving her glasses back onto her face. "I don't know about you, hon, but in my opinion? Door Number Two sounds like the better option."

_Door Number Two_. If there was one thing Dee Dee had had enough of it was doors. Doors that locked from the outside, doors that remained closed no matter how much she begged for them to open, doors that locked her in and the world out.

"Please, Dee Dee," he added. "There's nothing to be afraid of. Agent Ortiz and I have it all worked out. Everything's going to be okay. It's a promise."

**xxx**

"Ms. McCall, I know you're worried about your daughter…"

Hunter's mind shut down to the remainder of Ortiz's rambling, his focus becoming stuck on the last two words he'd expected to hear.

_Your daughter._

Dee Dee's— A daughter? He wanted to throw up. He needed to throw up before the damned swarm of wasps stung him to death from the inside out. Swiping at his mouth with the back of his hand, he spun around. Staring at nothing in particular, with Ortiz's voice ringing in his ears.

_Your daughter_.

Stepping up to the two-way window, he stopped in front of it, ignoring his own pale image in the glass and focusing instead on Dee Dee's. She still stood against the back wall, arms knotted across her chest, her eyes wide, fearful, like a deer caught in headlights. Too surprised to know what to do; too stunned to be able to do anything at all.

It wasn't that he'd expected her to be the same; he wasn't that delusional or optimistic. But damn it, he hadn't expected the changes to be so overwhelming, either.

Marriage. A child.

Jesus. Were they being selfish? Were they taking her away from something that she wanted more than she didn't? There was a child—she had a child. And no matter how immoral they might think the bastard down the hall was, he was her husband—Dee Dee's husband. The past was full of facts that couldn't be ignored, facts that Dee Dee had given him herself. It was the type of life she'd wanted, once, when he'd still known her—to have a family, be a part of a family so that she no longer had to be alone.

"What's happening here? You checking out on me, Hunter?"

Hunter cleared his throat, once again fighting down the sticky bile, as he shot a glance at Ortiz. _Are we being selfish?_ he silently questioned her, getting only a glare from her in response. He didn't doubt Dee Dee, but he did doubt the assumptions that surrounded the past six years. There'd been a kidnapping, an assault—that they knew. But after that…

Scrubbing a hand over his face, he fought down another swallow, cringing. What if the bastard down the hall wasn't really a bastard? What if he'd managed to do what the damned FBI and LAPD hadn't been able to do—save her? What if he'd protected her, managed to win enough of her trust that she'd begun to overlook things that she would have found unable to ignore before Oscar Velasquez forced his way into her life? She would've been traumatized, scared, angry, and it all would've made latching onto the first person that made an attempt to actually help her easy to do, easier to do than if she'd been in the old Dee Dee's frame of mind.

So, how arrogant were they to think that they were the only ones who could save her, instead of acknowledging that Elian Sandoval might have already done their job for them?

"She's married…has…a…a kid…" he choked into the mirror. "She has a…life—"

"You want to know what she has?" Lydia hissed, jumping up beside him and shoving her face up to his. "Our agents have been through that house in Coral Gables. They found her room. It's a big room, from what I've been told. Decorated real nice, with a closet full of designer clothes. There're books, stereo equipment, even a state-of-the-art TV. And then you get to the window. You know what it has on it? Bars, that's what it has. And there's a lock on the outside of the door. Not the inside, got it? Just the outside. That's the kind of life the son of a bitch has given her—the life of a prisoner." She took a step back, her chest heaving. "So, go ahead, let her go back to it. Walk away and push her back into it. After all, if no one else cares where she ends up, why should she?"

Hunter dropped his gaze from Dee Dee's reflection. He cared, damn it. Christ, he cared so much that he hadn't gotten a full night's sleep in over six years. He'd let go of almost everything that had ever mattered most to him, subsisted in his job by working it half-ass, and spent most evenings holed up in a house that a ghost existed in more than he did. So, he cared. It was the only real thing he sometimes felt like he really had—the fucking caring. And it scared the hell out of him wondering if he would lose it, too, because this new version of Dee Dee wouldn't want him to care about her.

"Sandoval took the kid," Lydia continued, her voice low but unmistakably angry. "A little girl, and Ms. MCall has no idea where she is. The only thing she knows for sure is that Sandoval gave orders to get her out of the country."

"A little…girl…" he repeated, through a whisper.

Lydia nodded. "Just four-years-old. One more hold on her Sandoval has right now."

"So, what're you—"

"Porter's on it," Lydia said. "He's getting the sketches out into the field. Finding Ava Sophia Sandoval has become top priority, and that makes it even more important for us to get Ms. McCall out of here. Sandoval doesn't know she told us about the kid, and once he finds out…" She shook her head. "In our custody or not, we all know he's still calling the shots."

"We take Dee Dee and Porter finds the kid, then what? Stanton thinks she escaped, he'll make sure she never gets her hands on that little girl. He'll use her for an even bigger bargaining chip than Sandoval would."

"Can you let me work on one problem at a time?" Lydia sighed loudly, tiredly. "Somehow, we'll figure it out."

"Yeah?" Hunter asked. "Well. I don't think it's me you need to convince." He shot a conspicuous glance at Dee Dee, frowning. "Unless you can convince her, she's not gonna budge. Out of all the women I've known in my life, she's always been the most stubborn."

"Never would've guessed that," Lydia grumbled through a roll of her eyes. "I mean, considering what a peach she's been to work with so far." She sighed again, weightier, glancing at a stoic Dee Dee and then back at Hunter. "Okay. So, she wants to see the bastard, we tell her we're going to let her."

Hunter's eyes widened as he spun his back to face Dee Dee again, Lydia turning with him. "Let her talk to him? Are you crazy—"

"I think we've already established that," Lydia returned. "But telling her we're going to take her to Sandoval will at least get her moving. And once we have her in motion, we just keep going. Smooth sailing right out the door, into the car and then off to her cozy, new digs in Coconut Grove."

"She's gonna fight us," Hunter argued, shaking his head.

"Yeah? Well, you ask me, it looks like she's pretty accustomed to losing. I don't think we're getting ourselves into a WWF match here."

Hunter wanted to laugh, and might have if his throat hadn't still been closed off. Ortiz was a good size woman, that was stating the obvious, but what she didn't understand was that Dee Dee—the old McCall—had taken down jackasses twice her size in the past. With an uppercut to the nose, a knee to the groin, a couple times that he remembered piggybacking them until they dropped, exhausted. Appearances were deceiving, he wanted to remind the agent, and she shouldn't make the same mistake hundreds of California State Prison's finest residents had made by counting out Dee Dee because of hers.

"Whatever you say," he conceded, sighing. "I'll follow your lead."

"A man who can follow a woman's lead," Lydia muttered. "Out of all this mess, running across that man would surprise me more than anything else has so far." She landed a hard slap against Hunter's shoulder. "All right, Ms. McCall. Looks like you win. You want to talk to Sandoval? Come on, let's go talk."

**xxx**

Something wasn't right.

They'd made two turns so far and gone down three different hallways. The woman had said that Elian was just two doors down, hadn't she? Dee Dee thought she remembered her saying it.

So, something wasn't right.

The woman seemed nervous, and he hadn't left the interrogation room with them. After they'd made it halfway down the corridor, Dee Dee glanced back and saw him going in the opposite direction—before getting stopped. It'd been another woman, a blonde, and she hadn't looked happy. She hadn't looked particularly angry, either. Mainly, from what Dee Dee had been able to tell through the distance, she'd looked worried. Sad, even.

"Where are we going?"

"Hopefully, forward," the woman mumbled almost too low for Dee Dee to hear. She kept her hand tightened around Dee Dee's upper arm, tugging on her, forcing her to walk faster than normal.

"But you said I could see—"

The woman came to a quick stop, causing the front of Dee Dee's shoulder to slam into the back of hers. Spinning around to face her, with her expression tensed, like she were on the verge of getting angry, she leaned in close. "I get the feeling you're more than a little used to people lying to you," she whispered. "So, don't act like it's some kind of surprise this time."

Dee Dee glanced behind them, the long corridor empty and silent. In front of them, less than ten feet away, was a steel door marked _Exit_. Quickly, anxiously, she ripped her arm out of Lydia's hold, jumping backwards a step. "No. No, I'm not leaving unless you let me talk to him first," she said, for the first time since being dragged into the Federal Building, her shoulders squaring and defiance making a noticeable emergence in her voice. "I _have_ to talk to him. Because Avi is gone…and Marcus and Isabel…and, and…Hunter is, he's…alive, and I…I—"

"Do you have a death wish? Is that it?"

"Do you?" Dee Dee snapped in return. "Because I'm not the one he'll kill. Because with me, that's never been his intention."

She watched the woman's curiosity peak, saw it filter into her eyes and darken them. "I've got to admit, you have me more than a little confused right now," Lydia said, shaking her head. "What is it with you two? Huh? Are you his victim, Ms. McCall, or are you his accomplice? Because you know, my ass is sitting smack dab on the proverbial line right now. The second I open that door and walk you through it, my job, pension and freedom will be at risk. So see, I'm going all in here, betting the whole kit and caboodle. And the thing is, I don't have a single qualm about doing it to help out a victim, to help someone start putting her life back together. But to do it to help someone who's even half as sleazy as Elian Sandoval, well…" She shook her head again, hard. "Gotta say, I'm going to have more than a little problem with that."

_What did they want from her?_ Dee Dee wanted to ask, but instead took another step backwards, another step further away from the help that was being offered. Did they want details? Was that it? A blow-by-blow account of everything the son of a bitch had done to her? And if that was it, where was she supposed start—at the beginning when it had been the bastard Oscar she'd lost against, or maybe she should start with waking up in the backseat of Elian's plane, or go right to the juiciest part and jump in to the night when he'd dressed her up to suit his taste and then stripped her down to her last vulnerability?

What in the hell did they want from her?

Sighing, she slumped against the wall. It was a rhetorical question, because she knew exactly what they wanted. She knew because she remembered it being the only thing she had wanted from the victims who'd been dragged into her precinct a lifetime ago when she'd been in the woman's place—willing to put her job, pension and freedom on the line just to be able to hand over justice to someone who deserved it. She hadn't forgotten; she remembered how to play the game. It was just that she didn't know how to play for the losing team.

"You don't know him," Dee Dee finally said, her voice broken, soft. "I didn't end up with him on accident. So at this point, I really don't know if that makes me his victim or his accomplice. I don't even care. All I do care about is my daughter."

"And the thing is, the FBI cares about both of you. So, why don't you make it a little easier for us to do our job?"

Dee Dee shook her head forcefully, with belief. "You said Elian's been with his attorneys, talking with them in private. I know for a fact that no one tells Elian what to do, he tells them. All this time, he's been in that room giving them orders, telling them who to contact and what orders to pass on. And I can guarantee you, getting rid of our daughter and me is at the top of his list."

_It was a no-brainer, wasn't it?_ Dee Dee wanted to ask in follow-up, but once again didn't. She remained quiet, relaying the dark truth through her stare. Obviously, there were skeptics but what they thought didn't matter, only what Elian thought did—what Elian was planning. His business dealings weren't something Dee Dee had ever been exposed to outright, but eavesdropping and watching when no one thought she was had provided her with more than enough information to bury him if the opportunity ever arose. There were drugs and women brought into the country on Elian's ships and planes, neither of which ever left again once they arrived. There was his brother's murder, and most damning of all, there was her. Six years missing, six years worth of stories to tell, and a child whose DNA would make the abuse that currently lived only in Dee Dee's memories impossible to deny if she ever made it as far as the witness stand.

"Doubt me all you want," she said. "But I do know how Elian works. What he's thinking is that my daughter is his only tangible link to me, and he has to make her disappear as quickly as possible."

"It might be what he's thinking, but I told you, we're going to find her first."

"In Colombia?" Dee Dee spit. "If he gets her there, you'll never get her back out."

"And if you get locked up, my hands will be tied. I'll never get _you_ out. Then what happens to your daughter?"

Dee Dee slumped against the wall. She just needed five minutes with Elian. Just enough time to make sure he wouldn't become another one of her doubters. She would promise him that she hadn't talked—that she wouldn't. She would promise to keep behaving, to follow orders, not to mess up. If he could just make one promise to her—the only promise that mattered.

Dee Dee cocked a brow, looking the woman up and then down. All things considered, she wasn't exactly intimidating. Maybe a little short tempered, patience definitely didn't seem to be her forte, but with her rumpled clothes, hair that looked like she'd forgotten to comb it for a few days and wearing two-day old makeup, intimidating was the last description that came to Dee Dee's mind. The word that did come to mind was nuisance, but then again, she was a necessary one. Or at the very least, a possible means to the end Dee Dee needed.

"You want to know who shot your agent, don't you?" she asked, beginning to nod as the woman did. "I can tell you who pulled the trigger. I can also tell you that one of the men who beat Thomas Landry was Marcus Rivera, the man who's with my daughter, and the others…" She spiked a brow again, forcing a deep frown. "I'll give you their names and the shooter's after I talk to Elian."

"Odds are in my favor that all these men are already in Federal custody," Lydia sighed, unimpressed by Dee Dee's newest attempt to make a deal. "We did haul in seventeen of Sandoval's employees, you know." She shrugged a shoulder and then crossed her arms. "No deal. I'll take my chances that some jackass that's ready to wheel and deal for a lighter sentence will tell us what we need to know."

"None of them will talk against Elian," Dee Dee shot back, determination having settled on her face. "It's a death sentence if they do, and they know it."

"Yeah? Then why are you ready to jump into the role of eager beaver?" Lydia scoffed. "Twelve hours ago I couldn't even get you to make eye contact with me. Now, I can't shut you up. So, what? You're the only one who's not afraid of dying, Mrs. Sandoval?"

Dee Dee huffed a breath through her nose, her nostrils flaring. "Don't call me that."

"Why not? Seems to me that's who you're acting like. At least you're acting a hell of a lot more like Sandoval's devoted wife than a woman who's anxious to regain her freedom. Hell, if I were you I'd have run through that door the minute I saw the exit sign. But you…" She shrugged markedly, skeptically. "You're wasting valuable time, and for what? To be able to say goodbye to the bastard that allegedly held you prisoner for six years?"

_Allegedly_. The word—its insinuation—stuck in Dee Dee's throat, quickly sending her raw and empty stomach into a spin. She knew the legal definitions of both kidnapping and unlawful imprisonment, and in the beginning, she'd applied both to herself. But as the years dragged on and compliance became second nature, even she'd begun to question herself. So, it didn't surprise her, really, to know that anyone else was questioning her.

So, screw them, she decided.

Not for the first time since being dragged out of Elian's house, but for the final time. Whether she was a participant in or victim of Elian's twisted world wasn't something she wasted her time trying to decide anymore, and it wasn't something she could allow anyone else to waste time on, either.

"Think whatever you want," she responded, indifference detectable in her tired voice. "I don't give a damn what your opinion of me is. The only opinion that matters is Elian's, because it's the one that comes with consequences."

"Your daughter?"

Dee Dee nodded once, hesitantly. "If you let me see him, if I promise him that I haven't said anything, that I haven't talked…" She sighed with an inference of defeat. "He might believe me."

"Or he might not," Lydia returned. "Then where does that leave us? He gets locked up, you get locked up—"

"She's my daughter!"

"And you're my responsibility!" Lydia hissed, her eyes blazing with impatience over the rims of her glasses. "I don't know if you get it or not, but I have everything on the line at this very second—same as your old partner and captain do! Stop fighting us, damn it, and help us help you! And in the process—God willing—we'll be able to help your daughter, too!"

Dee Dee stared, her eyes widening and then narrowing. Hunter never gave up easily before; she should've known that he wouldn't this time, either. Time didn't change everything, especially bullheadedness. "I'm not going with…them. I, I…can't…" He would want answers, details, explanations, and she remembered him well enough to know that he wouldn't leave her alone until he got them.

And she didn't want him to know.

He couldn't know what she'd let herself become.

"Please, Ms. McCall." Lydia sighed tiredly. "It's the only way."

"No," Dee Dee whispered, shaking her head. "No. No, I…I, I…" The walls began to close in around her. _Hunter was waiting for her_. On the other side of the door, outside, ready to take her away, somewhere else, somewhere new for her to disappear.

And she couldn't let him.

The floor seemed to tilt in her favor, sending her stumbling in the opposite direction of the woman. Her first few steps were unsteady, but she quickly gained both her footing and momentum. Heading toward the end of the hallway, leaving the damned door marked _Exit_ behind her, she frantically tried to retrace the steps that had delivered her to where she was. But when she reached the corner, the adjoining hallway with its corners and closed doors was a maze to her.

"Damn it! I really didn't want to have to do this!"

The body slammed into her back with force, shoving her face-first into the wall. Dee Dee grunted as hands circled her wrists, her attempted flails no match for Lydia's tight grasp. The sting of metal engulfed her right wrist first and then the left one, leaving her immobilized and trapped, with the woman whispering something indecipherable against the side of her face and the bastard Oscar's voice suddenly screaming deafeningly in her mind.

_"If you get sick in my bed, trust me, I'll make sure you regret it. You're a decorated police officer, for God's sake. Act like it."_

She couldn't breathe.

_She couldn't breathe._

Oscar's hands were on her again, she felt them—rough, trapping her, hurting her. She smelled his breath, stale from cigarettes and whisky, and her knees buckled. Wrenching to the side, she rammed a shoulder into the body behind her, hearing a harsh, gushed breath in response, and she began to tug wildly against the metal around her wrists. She lurched forward, her hands clenched into white-knuckled fists at the small of her back as she began to heave. Her throat turned hot and her lungs began to spasm, coughs rocking her as the acrid contents of her empty stomach splattered onto the floor.

_"If you get sick in my bed, trust me, I'll make sure you regret it."_

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I'm—" She coughed again, and again, tears dripping from her unseeing eyes, as her legs gave out beneath her and she dropped to the floor.

**xxx**

"Where the hell are they? Ortiz said she needed ten minutes to get Dee Dee out, that was it."

Hunter shot a worried glance at Charlie. He'd been sitting in the idling car for over thirty minutes, Hunter for just under ten. They hadn't said much to each other; there wasn't a lot that could be said. There was too much yet to be thought through, rationalized, accepted, believed, and talking wouldn't benefit either of them when neither of them had been able to shake their shock yet.

He could still see Dee Dee's face, her own shock. When he'd first walked into the interrogation room, when she'd finally looked at him, it was as if she hadn't recognized him. There was a blankness in her eyes, an emptiness. Not that he'd been expecting some happy reunion filled with hugs and laughter, but, damn it, he hadn't been able to stop himself from hoping for more than the nothing that he'd gotten.

"When you saw her, did she say anything?" Charlie asked, his face turned away from Hunter and stare focused outside the driver's side window.

"No." Hunter answered directly, without even a hint of mendacity to soften the truth.

"How'd she seem? Uh, you know. Emotionally?"

"Tired," Hunter grumbled. "In shock." _Different_, he silently added, clearing his throat to chase the bitter truth back down.

"But she… Physically, she seems—"

"Good," Hunter answered, borrowing Riley Porter's deficient answer.

"That's, uh." Charlie nodded stiffly. "Good. Guess that's something to be thankful for."

_Thankful_. Hunter couldn't hold back his laughter. It was short and curt and angry, garnering Charlie's attention. Their stares locked, Hunter's face flushing. "What the hell did that bastard do to her? I want to know what he did."

Charlie's lips tensed into a straight line, disagreement rumbling in his throat. "Why?" he asked. "What purpose would it serve?"

"Justification," Hunter growled. "Might get me a lighter prison sentence after I murder the son of a bitch."

Charlie grunted, shaking his head. "Get in line. You aren't the only one who wants to get your hands on him."

Hunter laughed softly, harshly. No, he wasn't the only one who wanted to get his hands on Elian Sandoval. But the thought wouldn't stop clawing at his mind as to why Dee Dee seemed to be the only one who didn't want the same thing he did? She didn't seem—or look—happy; Hunter hadn't sensed any relief in her, either. The nervousness and fear he'd expected, experience and training had prepared him for it. There was Stockholm syndrome to consider, he supposed. After six years, it would make sense. But even though he knew it existed, had even witnessed its effects in varying degrees, he'd never before been put in a position of having to go head-to-head with it. And he wasn't sure how to combat it, how to fight the bastard or win against it.

"She doesn't want to leave," he announced, Charlie's attention once again turned away from him and settled outside the window. "She wants to see him, talk to him."

Charlie grumbled a response, something unintelligible and disagreeing.

"She…" Hunter cleared his throat. "Charlie, she…she has…a…kid. A little girl." He heard the captain's breath leave him in a gush, strong and deflating. But he didn't glance in his direction. "She doesn't know where she is—the little girl. The Feds have started a search." _Married. A child_. Hunter could almost hear the words rolling around in the captain's brain just like they'd continued to do in his. Pinging and thudding like pinballs in an old time machine. It wasn't what they'd expected, not that either of them had had the first clue in hell what to expect.

"She wanted a family," Charlie finally choked. "Waited a long time." He shook his head, another grumble rattling in his throat. "Damn it. She deserved better than this."

"But what if she…" Hunter shook his head, swiping a thumb across his chin. Thinking. Not wanting to think any more. _What if she wanted Sandoval's life?_ his brain mocked him by asking yet again. Charlie was right, it was what she'd wanted and waited for. They all knew it; Dee Dee had never made it a secret. Having children had always been a dream of hers. She'd wanted marriage, a family. What she'd never wanted was to spend her life alone, and, damn it, it wasn't what she'd deserved to have to do. So, what if they were being as heartless as Elian Sandoval had allegedly been by taking her away from a life that was hers, a life that she actually wanted?

Marriage. Children. Her own family. Finally.

"A little girl?" Charlie asked, pulling Hunter out of his thoughts.

Hunter nodded. "That's what Ortiz said Dee Dee told her."

The captain turned toward him, his brows lowered. "So, she's talking?"

"Told Ortiz about the kid."

"That's a good sign," Charlie responded, nodding. "It's a start, and right now, I think we should be happy with that. The rest will come when Dee Dee's ready."

"And you think that'll happen? You think one of these days she'll be ready to come back?"

Charlie's expression fell, somberness darkening his eyes. "One of these days," he answered softly, almost too quietly to be heard and far too quietly to be believed. "We have to hope that one of these days she will be." Clearing his throat and pushing back against the seat, he sniffled. "Speaking of talking." He shot a sideways glance at Hunter, wincing expectantly. "You explain things to Trask before you left?"

Hunter answered with a frown, hearing Charlie mumble an understanding, "Yeah, that's what I thought."

_"What's going on, Rick?"_ Mallory had snapped when Hunter shoved her into the janitor's closet, slamming and bolting the door behind them_._ _"Were you even going to tell me? Did you think about talking to me first? Did you think about at least saying goodbye? Or, what? Were you just going to throw me to Stanton and let me fend for myself?"_

_"Mal, listen."_ _Mal, listen—what? The truth was, Mallory's assumptions had been spot-on. Because the second Hunter saw Dee Dee, his mind emptied of everything else. And that included his less-than-patient fiancé waiting at the end of the hallway._

_"No, you listen!" she shot back, with even more anger_. _"What the hell are you doing? You go through with this and you're throwing your entire life's work away! Stanton won't only make sure your badge gets taken, he'll make sure you end up in jail, too!"_

_"He can throw me in jail!"_

_She laughed, brusquely, with her eyes blazing_. _"Have you even thought this through? You could lose everything!"_

_"No. Hopefully what I'm doing is getting it back."_

_"Getting it…"_ _Mallory's voice faded, with understanding. She nodded, seeming resigned to the fact that she was being forced into a losing battle. The same battle she'd been struggling to get ahead in for the past four years._ _"Okay, fine. So, uh…so, where're you going? Think about it. You're not only hiding from the police and FBI, you're also hiding from Sandoval's men. He's going to want her found, you know."_

_"Yeah, I know."_ _He took her hands in his, squeezing. Almost wishing that it could have been simple, her and him_. _"Look it. Don't worry, okay? There's an agent—Lydia Ortiz. She's helping us out. So, stay in touch with her. She'll keep you informed as much as she can."_

_"As much as she can…" She spiked a brow. "And what about you? How do I get in touch with you?"_

_"You don't."_

_Mallory took a quick step back, pulling her hands out of his. "That's unfair. I have the right to know where you are. Jesus, Rick. I have the right to know you're okay. You can't expect me to just sit around and wait."_

No, it wasn't fair for him to expect it, Hunter knew it was what he should have told her. It was what he should've told her years ago, early on. In the beginning. When he first realized just how ready she was to move forward from the ugliness their pasts shared.

But he hadn't told her. Not then, not ever.

_"It's all we've got," he said, feeling as sympathetic as he did apologetic. "Right now, Mal, we wait. All of us."_

_"But not all together, right?" she responded coolly. "Or, no, wait. Dee Dee and you will wait together. I'll wait alone."_

_"Mallory, I'm sorry—"_

_She stopped him with a hard shake of her head. "I wish I believed that. But even more, I wish it was how you really felt."_

"I told her to stick close to Ortiz," Hunter said, Charlie responding with a nod. "Hopefully, I can talk her into heading back to California."

Charlie chuckled, through a shake of his head. "You think she's going to leave, just like that?" He chuckled again, the resonance more of a grumble. "Don't bet on it. One thing you're consistent about? You pick them smart…and stubborn. I have a feeling Trask is going to do exactly what she wants to do, and that's stay close. Especially if staying close is what you don't want her to do."

**xxx**

"Ms. McCall? Ms.—Dee Dee? Can you hear me?"

_"Don't fight me. I've already proven that you can't win, not against me. No one can win against me."_

She could hear him. His voice echoed in her mind, rang in her ears, loud and overpowering. Consuming.

"Damn it, come on now. Don't do this to me. I need you working with me, not against me."

The metal fell away from her wrists, chilled air instantly stinging her right wrist and then left one, but she didn't move her arms. She left them stiffened and trembling behind her, her hands balled at the small of her back.

_Don't fight_. It was what Oscar had told her—over and over. It would only make things worse if she continued to fight him. And eventually, she believed him.

So, she remained still, huddled on the floor with her forehead pressed into her knees and the pungent stench of vomit contaminating each of her breaths.

"Ms. McCall, please. We're wasting a lot of valuable time here."

Her breath was hot against the tops of her thighs, her heart hammered as she felt the bastard's arm slide around her neck. She wouldn't tell anyone; she'd promised—damn it, sworn to God. What could she tell, anyway? She saw faces but didn't recognize them, and heard names but none of them meant anything to her. She just wanted out. She didn't care anymore about justice or arrests or revenge. She only cared that it stopped.

"Okay, come on. Let's get back to the here and now. Not to be insensitive, but I really need you to save the flashbacks for someone else's watch. I don't have time for them on mine."

_"I'll take her with me. I'm not worried about the police—or the FBI, for that matter. Once I get her to Miami…"_

Her head popped up as Elian's voice boomed in her ears, her eyes wide, searching. For a second she saw him, looming over her, looking smug, but then the rumpled figure came into focus. Not looking any happier than Elian ever did, but surprisingly, not looking as threatening, either.

"That's it," Lydia coaxed, nodding. "Come on back with me now." The metal cuffs dangled in one of her hands, and as Dee Dee's wide-eyed stare targeted them Lydia quickly moved them behind her back and hooked them to her belt. She shrugged as if to apologize, before mumbling, "Stupid move on my part. Never cuff a victim. FBI training one-oh-one."

Dee Dee swallowed audibly, her gaze dropping to the floor and the sticky bile that dotted it. "I'm…I'm sorry," she whispered. "I didn't mean…to…"

"You're sorry, I'm sorry…" Lydia shrugged a brawny shoulder. "Apologies given and accepted. Now, think you can get back on your feet?"

"Where're you taking me?"

"Guess that's a fair question," Lydia responded, before hooking a hand beneath Dee Dee's arm and helping her up. She grunted as Dee Dee swayed and pressed her back against the wall to steady her. "Let's go over this one more time—fast. Because, honestly, you have, like, thirty seconds to get it and then we're out of time."

"You're arresting me?" Dee Dee asked shakily.

"That's what I'm trying to stop from happening," Lydia returned, moving her face close to Dee Dee's flushed one. "No one's found any evidence that says you should be charged with anything, but some of the pricks around here who get their rush off of power still want you locked up until we get the answers we need out of you. They work under the philosophy of guilty until proven innocent, if you know what I mean. And right now, their theory is that you're guilty simply because of association." She shrugged again, markedly. "You're married to the bastard, so that has to mean you're playing for his team."

Dee Dee hesitated, before managing a weak nod. "I am married to him," she admitted. "There was a…ceremony, a judge."

"Yeah? Were you a bouquet-carrying participant in this ceremony because you wanted to be?"

Dee Dee's brows wrinkled, and she bit down into her bottom lip. "I, uh. I was pregnant," she whispered. "And so, Elian, he…he, uh…"

Lydia took a step back, sighing. Running a hand through the top of her mussed hair, she shot a glance at the opening of the hallway. "I'm sorry," she finally said, her voice tight, low. "I'd kill the bastard myself for you if I could. But I can't do that. All I can do is try to help you this way—by getting you out and sticking you somewhere safe. And, God willing, that safe haven is Coconut Grove. It's just a few miles down the highway, but at this point, putting even a few miles between this place and you is better than none at all."

_Coconut Grove_. It could be a trick, Dee Dee reminded herself. All of it from the second she was dragged out of the house could be one more of Elian's tests. And it probably was, she knew. Just like she knew that she'd already failed. She'd talked when she shouldn't have, said more than she was supposed to. But the decision to do so had been made purposely on her part. It had been the first decision she'd made in what felt like a lifetime. And although the consequences of being so bold—or so stupid, as Elian would see it—made her uneasy, knowing that she'd stood up for herself that much, even if just a little bit, felt unfamiliarly good.

"Ms. McCall, please—"

Dee Dee cut off the woman with a sharp nod, before mopping her forehead with a swipe of her hand. "We're out of time," she said, repeating what she'd been told. "If I leave with you, what about my daughter? If you find her—"

"I _will_ get her to you," Lydia promised. "If it's the last thing I do."


	13. Chapter 13

**THIRTEEN**

They'd made her lay down in the backseat of the car.

_"The last thing we need is someone's nosiness getting the better of them,"_ the woman had said with a smile, one that she'd tried to make look sincere.

Dee Dee didn't know how long they'd driven or what direction they'd gone. There were turns, stops and starts, and out of the back window she'd counted the clouds in the sky in between each.

Twelve turns, seven stops, twenty-two clouds.

Neither of them talked to her during the drive. They didn't even talk to each other. The only noises had been passing cars and a few honks of horns.

When they stopped, Captain Devane got out of the car first. Hunter told her to stay put a minute longer. _"Looks like we're good, let's go," _he'd finally said, and then tossed a gray, hooded jacket over the seat to her. _"Put it on, pull up the hood. Make sure your hair isn't showing and keep your head down until we get inside."_

She'd thought about laughing. When Elian took her, he hadn't seemed to care whom—or if anyone—saw her. He'd paraded her around in no other disguise than bruises and a black eye.

But Hunter was careful, over the top cautious.

Just like she remembered him being.

From what she was able to glimpse of the outside of the house, it was small. A light pink in color with white shutters on either side of the two, front windows, and there was a palm tree in one corner of the yard; it's leaves partially canopying the flat roof. Inside, the air was musty, like it had been stagnant too long. The furniture was an older style—a long, floral-print sofa with fat, round arms and a matching, high-back chair, a wicker rocking chair with a thin, bright turquoise cushion, and a round, glass-topped coffee table sitting in the center of the grouping.

_"There are a couple of bedrooms,"_ Hunter had said, after they'd spent what felt like an eternity shoved into separate corners in the tiny living room doing their best not to mke eye contact with each other. _"Why don't we get you set up in one?"_

Her agreement to his suggestion came in the form of pushing herself out of her respective corner and making the trek across the room. Just before she'd passed through the dome-shaped doorway into the hall, Captain Devane darted out of the safety of his corner. He touched her wrist, just lightly, like he wasn't sure he had the right to touch her at all. She'd looked at him for the first time then, into his eyes, and even though she found tears in them, she saw a familiar smile behind their glistening.

_"You've been missed, Dee Dee."_

Missed? Had she been? She'd stopped wondering about that at some point—if anyone missed her, if they ever thought about her anymore. She had stopped wondering about all of them. She hadn't wanted to fantasize about their lives any more than she had their deaths. She'd wanted to forget, and eventually, for the most part, she'd been able to.

He led her to the bedroom at the end of the hallway. It wasn't even half the size of the room Elian had given her, and it was decorated with far more outdated furniture—a blonde-wood, double-size bed in the center of the room and a matching chest of drawers against the far wall. A wicker chair sat in one corner; it's rounded arms ornate and big, a yellow cushion filling the seat.

"It's not the Ritz," Hunter tried to joke, sounding like his voice was stuck in his throat. "But that agent—you know, Ortiz? Her family owns this place. She thinks we'll be safe here." He pulled back the quilt spread on the bed, folding it into a V-shape. Then he nodded toward it, his lips trembling but never managing a smile. "Maybe you should try to sleep. Get some rest."

Dee Dee dropped her gaze, leaning a shoulder into the doorframe.

"Sandoval isn't getting out of jail," he continued. "The Feds have been tracking him for a while now. They know what he's about, and they've been waiting to get their hands on him."

She didn't respond, didn't act like she'd even heard him.

"It's going to be okay. Why don't you try to sleep?"

"I don't want to sleep." The emergence of her voice surprised them both. Hunter, she could tell, by the way his eyes popped open wide and jaw immediately clenched. She bowed her head, hiding from his stare—the same stare that had cut through her in the interrogation room, taking her by surprise, causing her entire body to tense as it questioned her, dissected her.

The last twenty-four hours were a blur, one that she still couldn't seem to put any distinction with—the FBI agent in the dining room, the footsteps and gunshots and shouts, Hunter—_alive_. She sighed, dragging a hand across her forehead. She'd dreamed about freedom for so long, but now that it was in front of her she didn't know how to trust it. Elian would do everything in his power to take it away from her again. She knew that, so why was everyone else being so naïve? They believed they'd brought down the monster, but none of them realized that he was incapable of dying. He was unstoppable, unconquerable.

She understood it.

And Elian would make sure that everyone else understood it, too.

"Charlie's heading out to get some groceries," Hunter said, motioning toward the doorway with a nod of his head. "Going to get rid of the car, too, pick up a different rental."

"He'll still find us," she said, straightforward, truthful.

"He's in custody."

She smiled faintly, mockingly. "You think that's enough to stop someone like him?"

"This time, yeah. I do. The bastard's going to pay for what he's done."

Her smile wilted, her resolve spiking. "He'll kill you. He'll kill anyone who gets in his way."

"Yeah, well. He has to find me first."

"He will." She wondered why he didn't understand. It was so obvious to her, painfully so. "He won't stop looking for me until he finds me. Elian never gives up his possessions without a fight."

He grimaced, looking like he could get sick. "You're not a possession," he said, not sounding at all believable. "You don't belong to that bastard."

"Yes, I do," she answered honestly, emotionlessly. "I'm his. He made sure I understood that a long time ago, and he'll make sure you understand it, too."

**xxx**

Hunter didn't know how long he'd been on the floor, propped up against the wall with his gun fisted in his right hand. The hours felt like minutes, the minutes like seconds, each speeding and dragging by all at the same time.

Exhaustion had finally won out over Dee Dee, and after she'd curled beneath the heavy blankets on the bed and he'd been sure she was asleep, he'd snuck back into the bedroom and filled his post in front of the door. And he'd watched her. How her eyelids fluttered through restless sleep and her lips whispered words that he couldn't hear. His mind kept playing tricks on him, partially from exhaustion but mostly from disbelief. One minute she would fade away, evaporating into the air and leaving the bed empty—him empty again. And the next minute she would be there, still. Looking fragile and lost, but still looking enough like the woman he remembered to keep his heart pumping inside of his chest.

Hunter shook his head, trying to shake off his fatigue, and pinched his index finger and thumb over the bridge of his nose. Checking the loaded Glock, he flipped the metal from side to side and back again, before glancing up and catching the darkened eyes staring. Dee Dee lay on her side, facing him, with her hands buried beneath the side of her face. Her dark hair fanned across one shoulder, and he could see the slow rise and fall of her chest with each breath.

She was breathtaking, breath-stealing.

She was breathing. _Still_.

And he fought the damned urge not to leap onto the bed with her and wrap her in his arms.

He smiled, only managing to maintain the gesture for a fleeting second, as Dee Dee remained stoic and unresponsive. "You hungry?" He shrugged a shoulder, glancing toward the open door. "Charlie got back from the store a little while ago. I can fix you something, if you want."

She didn't move or respond to his offer, merely closed her eyes again. Shutting him out, keeping him out. For how long, he wondered, the thought filling him with even more fear. What if it turned out to be forever? What if it turned out that Dee Dee was right and, in the end, the bastard did win?

Leaning his head back against the door, he closed his eyes. His mind began to wander, cycling backwards to an easier time, an unusually carefree time. They'd spent a long weekend alone, albeit he'd had to convince Dee Dee to go with him to Big Bear. A commune with nature wasn't what she normally craved, she'd argued with him, the city was more her style. But finally, Hunter's continual promises of relaxation, leisure, and time to themselves convinced her to cave. So, they left behind the bustle of their hectic lives and traded it for three days in a nearly dilapidated cabin in the middle of nowhere. And Hunter couldn't help remember thinking then, and thinking still, that he'd found heaven on earth that weekend—and the scenery hadn't been bad, either.

He chuckled to himself, remembering how his born and bred city girl partner had first seemed so out of place. She complained, whined, and barraged him with insults for tricking her into thinking she would actually have anywhere close to a good time. In hopes of lightening her sour mood, he'd convinced her to go fishing with him. She spent their time perched at the side of the lake issuing even more complaints—she wouldn't touch the worms, they were too slimy, she couldn't bear for Hunter to keep any of the fish he caught, it was cruel, and she didn't understand how anyone could enjoy spending so many mindless hours sitting in the itchy grass while hanging onto an overpriced stick.

In the end, he won their argument to keep at least two of the fish he caught, playing on her biggest weakness—an insatiable appetite. Dee Dee loved her food, and once he convinced her that fish was their only choice for that night's entrée, she conceded the fight.

_"What do you mean you want me to cut their heads off?" Dee Dee shrieked, jumping behind Hunter and peering around his lanky frame like a frightened child, as she stared at the two fish laid out on the wooden porch. "I said I'd eat them, that was it!"_

_"Hey, I caught them. I think it's only fair for you to gut them."_

_"Gut them?"_ _Her face crinkled and her tongue shot out of her mouth with disgust. "Boy. You sure know how ruin a girl's appetite, don't you?"_

_"Come on, McCall. Don't be a baby. Just take the knife and cut the heads off."_ _He shoved the silver knife at her, sighing when she refused to take it._

_"I can't,"_ _she whimpered, her fingers tightening around the material of his plaid shirt as she continued to bathe Hunter's gray-scaled catches of the day with a mournful stare._ _"They're staring at me."_

_"They aren't…"_ _He shook his head, chuckling._ _"McCall, they're dead."_

_"Uh uh. No, did you see that one?"_ _Her finger shot out in the direction of the larger of the two fish._ _"It blinked."_

_"Fish don't blink."_

_"How do you know?"_

_"Because they just don't, that's how I know."_ _He stepped to the side, rolling his eyes as she moved with him._ _"We can't cook them like this."_

_"You did catch them, so you do whatever it is you have to do to get them ready to cook. This becoming-one-with-nature idea was yours. Remember? I wanted to go to San Diego and shop for the weekend."_

_"Yeah, well. This is better."_

_"Oh, yeah? Says who?"_ _She shook her head_. _"If you want to take a poll here, Hunter, you'll lose. I have a feeling your friends will be on my side."_

_"They aren't my friends, they're dinner. What, you'd rather starve?"_

_Glancing up at the partially open front door to the cabin, she frowned. "You didn't bring anything else to eat? You know, like a backup? Something in case of an emergency?"_

_"Crackers and peanut butter," he answered, matter of fact. "We're supposed to be camping here. Living off the land, you know? Roughing it?"_

_"Seems to me the only ones who are really roughing it right now are the fish." She knotted her arms across her chest, dancing anxiously behind him. _

_He grabbed her hand and yanked her toward him. Wrapping her palm around the handle of the knife, he steadied his hand over hers. He could feel her trembling, and glanced down to see that she had squeezed her eyes closed. "You can't cut off their heads with your eyes closed."_

_"I don't want to see it," she whispered breathlessly, although she remained relaxed against him with her back pressing into him and her hand buried under his. "If you're going to make me do this, fine, but it doesn't mean I have to watch."_

_"Then how're you going to know if you're cutting in the right spot?"_

_"I don't care where I'm cutting. I just want to get it over with, all right?"_

_He leaned into her, the side of his face brushing against hers as he stared over her shoulder. He caught the scent of her perfume, subtle and enticing, and felt the softness of her skin against his. _

_And he knew at that moment, as she trusted him so explicitly, that he had fallen in love._

"Tell me about your daughter."

Her eyes opened at the sound of his voice. She tensed visibly, her hands curling into fists.

"How old is she?" Hunter pressed. She answered with more silence, and he nodded, accepting her cautiousness, her fear. "Things…around, uh. They're pretty much the same, I guess. I mean…what I mean is, nothing's…really…" Sighing, he shook his head, signifying that his rambling was over. He didn't have anything to say, anyway. What he wanted was to ask her questions, hear her talk. Surprisingly, he wanted to know about her daughter—what was she like, did she look like Dee Dee, were their personalities alike? He wanted to know her, even though learning about her had settled a pit in the center of his gut that hadn't budged yet. He would never deny that he hated the bastard who'd forced Dee Dee's daughter's existence on her, but still, he wanted to know her. Because she was a part of Dee Dee, the best part, he instinctively knew.

And he needed more than anything else to know every part of her again.

"Just tell me her name?" he pleaded.

She took in a breath, deep, filling, and pulled a hand out from beneath her head, brushing away a flyaway strand of hair. If he stared just into her eyes, he saw the differences, what was unfamiliar. But if he could look without seeing her eyes, he was able to recognize her, to find the familiar. To pretend, even if only for a second here and there, that she was still herself.

Still his McCall.

**xxx**

She watched from the doorway as he meandered through the tiny kitchen, pulling a carton of eggs out of the refrigerator, tossing a loaf of bread onto the countertop, grabbing utensils out of drawers, and pots and pans out of cabinets. He clanked and rattled with caution, grunting in reprimand of each noise.

She glanced at the clock that hung above the stove. 7:45. It had been somewhere around eleven o'clock the night before, she thought, when she'd finally drifted off. During the night, she'd awoken twice, the first time sending her popping out of the bed like it had come alive with electricity and shocked her. It took a good twenty minutes for her to get her bearings and calm down enough to lie back down, and then she'd spent another hour listening to the soft snores seeping out of the bedroom at the head of the hall. They'd belonged to Captain Devane, she instinctively knew. Not based on sound or familiarity, but because she remembered well enough.

Hunter never would've fallen asleep. He never could have.

Not when he'd assigned himself as someone else's protector.

The second time she'd awoken she'd done so in tears. Silent sobs that had once again sent her out of the bed and into the furthest, darkest corner of the unfamiliar room. She'd huddled on the floor, hugging her knees, crying until she drifted off again. In that spot, hidden by the darkness, only to awaken for the third and final time to sunlight sneaking into the room beneath the pulled-down window shade and to the persistent clanks and rattles in the kitchen.

Leaning a shoulder into the wall, she watched him. His back was to her, the plaid, button-down shirt he wore untucked, with the hem falling beneath the waistband of his faded blue jeans. She spotted the bulge on his left side, beside his ribcage—the holstered gun that he'd kept within reach since they arrived at the tiny house. His hair was thinner than she remembered, with specks of gray noticeable at his temples. Obviously, he looked older, a little more beaten down—weathered was the word that came to mind. As if the past six years hadn't been any easier for him to live through than they had been for her. And for some reason—maybe a selfish one—thinking that gave her comfort. To know, or think at least, that adjusting had been as much of a struggle for someone else as it had been for her.

"Hey. You're up."

His smile wasn't genuine, but unlike her, he at least attempted one. She arched a brow versus saying "Good morning," and knotted her arms over her chest in retaliation to the persistent chilliness in the air. Seeming as if he'd already conditioned himself to expect her silence, he merely shrugged. "What do you feel like this morning? I can fry up some eggs, or make French toast."

Her gaze landed on the food lain out across the countertop, her brows dipping with indecision. It was a simple choice—a simple question—but one that she had no idea how to answer.

What did _she_ feel like eating?

She couldn't remember the last time her opinion had been asked for, or a decision had been left up to her to make. Even when it came to something as simple as eating, it was never her choice that was asked for. Elian set the menu, and she either ate what was served or went hungry. Whether or not a dish was to her liking had never been a concern for anyone.

"Whatever you want," Hunter prodded, a nervous smile shivering across his lips. "Name it."

She dropped her gaze from his patient stare, taking with it what little existed of his smile. The truth was, she didn't want to eat. Her stomach had begun to burn and roll as soon as Elian pushed her out of the kitchen and back into the dining room God only knew how many hours—or days—ago, and it hadn't stopped yet.

"It's just breakfast," he said, shrugging.

She gulped down a breath, finally answering with a shake of her head. If she were back in Coral Gables, breakfast would have already been served and eaten. Generally, it was oatmeal with a cup of fresh fruit; sometimes it was a soft-boiled egg and a bagel. Whether or not she actually liked any of it, she'd never put any time into thinking about. She ate when she was told to and what was served, and she did it for no other reason than it was what she was expected to do.

"Okay, well…" He glanced back over his shoulder at the cluttered countertop. "Why don't we make it easy—eggs and toast? You like yours scrambled, right?"

Scrambled—did she? She didn't remember, and she wondered why he did? "However you like them is fine," she answered, pushing off the wall and walking along the opposite side of the island, the Formica-topped block of wood keeping her separated from Hunter. The truth was, no matter how he cooked the eggs—soft-boiled, scrambled or over-easy—she wouldn't be able to get them down, anyway.

Although she would try, of course. If it was what he told her to do.

"However I like them," he mumbled to himself, turning toward the stove.

Clearing her throat to grab his attention back, she leaned shakily into the island, her hands flattening over its smooth surface. "How, uh. How long are you going to keep me here?"

His expression fell and then tensed. "I'm not keeping you here. This is for your safety—to make sure you stay safe."

She nodded weakly, with disbelief. She didn't feel safe in the tiny, time-forgotten house, and she didn't know how anyone else could, either. Elian was everywhere, all around them, surrounding them. She could feel him watching her, breathing down her neck, waiting for her to drop her guard so he could pounce.

And it made her nervous, waiting for the inevitable.

"When Ortiz says it's safe to leave, then we will," he continued. "I'll talk to her later today, from a payphone she thinks is safe to use. We'll know more after that about what's going on with Sandoval's case."

"It doesn't matter what's going on with his case. A lot of people work for him, and they're still out there—everywhere. And every one of them is taking orders from Elian."

"Yeah, and Ortiz said she'd take care of that. She was going to recommend they stick Sandoval in isolation. No communication in, none out."

Dee Dee couldn't stop herself from laughing, whisperingly at least. They really were naïve, just as stupid as she'd been in the beginning. "You don't understand him."

He cracked an egg against the side of a skillet, the gooey center rolling over the edge of the pan. "I don't want to."

"It's dangerous not to. Stupid, too."

"He's the one who's been stupid," he said, spinning back around to face her. Behind him, the egg crackled and sizzled in the skillet, the whites bubbling and yoke running. "He was stupid to think he'd never get caught."

There was an edge to his voice, an anger that she recognized. It sparked in his eyes, darkening them a shade, and causing his jaw to tense. Just like she remembered. Like she'd tried to forget.

"You can talk to me, you know," he said. "I know this is all new and you're scared. I get that. But right now, right here, you don't have to be. No matter what's happened, you know Charlie and me. You still know us, and you know you don't have to be afraid with us."

"I'm not afraid of you," she argued shakily. "I'm afraid _for_ you, because you're the one who's being stupid. You think you can beat him, but you can't. He already proved that, didn't he?"

He deflated in front of her, her hinted at accusation visibly shaking him. She did still know him, well enough at least through her memories, and she knew that he saw his biggest failure as being her. And maybe, deep down, she was the biggest failure she attributed to him, too.

"He murdered his own brother in cold blood," she whispered. "Do you really think it would bother him to kill you?"

He shook his head, his jaw flexing. "I'm not worried about him." Turning his back to her, he stirred the eggs with a spatula. "Eggs will be ready in a minute."

"He told me…he said…he had killed you."

"He lied."

"But." She released a breath; fighting to get out the question she needed answered most, the question that had her as puzzled as Hunter's obvious good health. "He killed other people, didn't he? My…my parents?"

"Your…" He turned toward her, leaving the eggs to burn as he stepped up to the island. "No. Not your parents, either."

Tears filled her eyes, glistening in them, overpowering them. "But Elian said…he told me—"

"The bastard lied, Dee Dee." He glanced back over his shoulder and twisted the knob on the stove, shutting down the burner. "I've, uh. I've kept in touch with your folks, you know, kept tabs. Your mom, she's doing all right. She's still in the same house, seems good."

"My mom?" she whispered, finding the answer to the unrequited second-half of her question in the sympathy that swept across his face. Her eyes began to burn, tears dropping onto her flushed cheeks even before Hunter confirmed the conclusion she'd already reached.

"Your dad… I'm sorry, honey. It happened about three years ago. It, uh. It was a stroke."

She took a step back, brushing away her tears. Oddly, she felt relieved knowing that her father died naturally and not in the brutal manner Elian had taunted her with. But she also felt angry—angrier. Angry that Elian had forced her to spend the last six years grieving and feeling responsible, so damned guilty. And now she would have to begin the grieving process all over again. Not only for her father, but also for the years Elian had stolen from them.

"He always said you'd come home," Hunter said. "He believed it."

"He must've been so sad." She glanced up, gratitude momentarily overpowering her anger. "You've taken care of them, haven't you?"

He shrugged off her appreciation. "I've tried to help out."

She smiled faintly, fleetingly, remembering him well enough to know he'd done more than simply try. "They always liked you."

"Well, now. I don't know about that. To tell you the truth, I think they, uh…you know. Maybe they blamed me."

She shook her head, seeming to see through him. Understanding that the blame he carried hadn't been given to him by anyone other than himself. "It was my fault. I pushed for the Velasquez assignment. I was the one who wanted to take it, not you. So, if you're going to blame someone, blame me."

"I blame Sandoval."

"No, you blame yourself."

He blinked quickly, his tears building. "I never stopped looking."

"I thought everyone did."

"No, I just…" He clenched his fists, tears trickling onto his cheeks. "Every time I got a lead, there just…there wasn't anything. I didn't know where to go next. You were just…gone."

"I tried to fight, at first. I want you to know that I didn't just give up. But then he…he told me that, uh. He said you were dead, that it was my fault. And so I stopped. I didn't fight anymore because there wasn't a reason to."

"Well, now you can start fighting again. And this time, I'm going to help you. We'll beat him, Dee Dee. Together, we're going to beat the son of a bitch."

**xxx**

"How's she doing?"

Hunter grunted into the telephone receiver, his stare searching the quiet street. "As good as can be expected, I guess." Leaning a shoulder into the metal stall, he turned his back to the sparsely populated building. "How's it going there?"

"Depends. You like the zoo?" Lydia Ortiz chuckled, the resonance a deep vibration as it seeped through the phone. "Stanton wants my head on a platter, I can tell you that much. And the bastard isn't picky, doesn't even care if it's a silver one."

"He linked you to Dee Dee going AWOL?"

"Linked me in his sorry excuse for a brain," Lydia confirmed. "But he hasn't been able to prove anything yet. I've been questioned a few times by superiors. Luckily for me, though, deceit is one of those useful traits I mastered early on in life. Right now, folks are suspicious, but so far no one's threatened to check me into my own, personal eight-by-ten suite."

Hunter nodded, scrubbing a hand over his face. "I feel like a sitting duck."

"Well, make sure you keep your head underwater. That way, it makes it tougher to tell you apart from the other sitting ducks." She sighed, weighted and loud. "Every free agent has been assigned to this cluster, and at the moment, their top priority is locating Ms. McCall."

"To arrest her?"

"Question her. About her disappearance, Sandoval's business dealings, and, uh, and this little girl she's so anxious for us to find."

Hunter straightened, shooting another glance at the locked door. "What about the girl? Any leads?"

"As far as where she is, no. But as far as whom she is… That's where things are starting to turn a little gray."

"Gray? What does that mean?"

"It means…" She sighed again, drawn-out. "I'm trying not to doubt your old partner, Hunter. I really am. But what I need to have happen so that doesn't is for her to start talking. And not just talking, but saying something that actually has some meat to it."

Hunter shook his head, confused, feeling as aggravated as Ortiz sounded. "Just tell me what's happening with the kid."

"The search for her is still full steam ahead. But." She paused, a beat of silence passing through the phone. "A birth certificate was found. There was a copy in one of Sandoval's home safes, the original is on file with the state."

"Yeah? And?" Hunter pushed impatiently.

"And. The name Ms. McCall gave me for the little girl checks out. We have a Certificate of Live Birth for an Ava Sophia Sandoval born in '92. Elian Sandoval's name is listed as the father, but the mother's name…" Silence crept across the line again, lingering, anxious. "The certificate has the mother listed as an Isabel Ramirez, not Dee Dee McCall."

**xxx**

Dee Dee couldn't remember anything that happened before she woke up on the floor in the bedroom, but when coherency finally began to creep back into her mind, she found herself huddled against the wall with a visibly shocked Hunter halfway across the room looking like he was on the verge of turning around and running back out.

She ran a hand across her forehead, her skin clammy and coated with sweat. The air in the room had turned warm, stale, causing her chest to wheeze with each breath. Embarrassed and even more confused, she managed to get her legs back under her and make the few steps back to the bed. Sinking down on the edge, keeping her back to an annoyingly attentive Hunter, she gulped down another breath, and then another. The fear on his face made her stomach roll, and she was afraid if she was forced to look at it even a second longer she would only add to her humiliation by depositing the majority of it on the floor at his feet.

"It was just a dream," Hunter said.

"I know," she answered, her tone abrasive, short. She mopped her forehead again, sighing exaggeratedly, as if the gesture would somehow suffice as an apology for her tone.

"You want to talk about it?"

"No."

"It might help."

"No, it won't."

"Yeah. Probably not."

He sounded dejected, and once Dee Dee worked up the nerve to glance back at him, she found him looking the part even more. She knew what he was doing—trying to step back into sync with her, to reconnect. He wanted to pretend that just because he'd yanked her out of the Feds' hands and hidden her away that everything would be all right, it would go back to being what it used to be. He wanted to pretend—to make her believe—that Elian didn't have any power, that he was just another two-bit criminal who could be stopped by iron bars. But most of all, he wanted to pretend that she was the same old Dee Dee, unaffected, unchanged, and that they were once again—maybe even still—Hunter and McCall.

But the problem was, her imagination wasn't as strong as his.

"I'm his wife," she said, scooting around on the bed to face him. "Do you understand what that means? He's not going to stop looking for me. No matter how long you keep me here or where you hide me next, he'll keep looking. And eventually, he'll find me."

He nodded once, stiffly. "I know that's what you think—"

"It's what I _know_," she hissed, a spark igniting in her eyes.

"Dee Dee—"

"No," she snapped impatiently, maybe even irrationally Hunter might think. But only because he was looking at her through uneducated eyes, still trying so damned hard to pretend. "I know him, you don't. He doesn't care who he hurts, and he won't care if a hundred people end up dying just so he can get to me. He won't stop until he gets what he wants."

Hunter shuffled backwards a step, swiping a hand over the top of his short hair. And he stared. Questioning her, she could see in his eyes. He was trying to decide whether or not he should trust her, and if he should, why?

"Why you?" he finally asked, uncertainty tainting his voice. "Why does he want you?"

_Why?_ She almost laughed at him, laughed his question back in his face, because the reason was far too simplistic, too meaningless. _Prudence_. It had been Elian's only reason, and in his opinion, it had not only been a valid one, but one she should feel grateful toward. A curtain of hair slid over her shoulder, hiding her from him. She shook her head, an exhale fluttering the long strands. "He doesn't want me," she answered, her voice a whisper, broken. "He never did."

His confusion stained the silence that separated them, and he took another step backwards, and another, until his back popped against the chest of drawers. The structure rattled in retaliation, the hinges of its empty drawers squeaking.

"Just let me leave," she whispered. "Please."

"I can't."

She risked a glance at him, finding him still staring. "Why not?"

"Because…" He shook his head. "We're talking about your life."

"No, we aren't. I don't have one."

Hesitantly, he moved away from the dresser, each step slow, deliberate. Sitting down on the opposite corner of the bed from her, he was careful to keep distance between them. "Tell me," he urged softly.

"There's nothing to tell, just like there's nothing to take back. What you want to give me, I don't even…I don't…remember…" She closed her eyes, trying to conjure up the images that had become faded and blurred over the years. Images of who she used to be, who she'd liked being. Images that seemed more like fantasies than a reality that had once been hers. "I don't remember how I liked my eggs cooked. I don't remember what I liked to do in my free time, or if I had a favorite outfit, or how my house was decorated. I don't remember any of it, and I don't…want…to." She pried her eyes open, tears pooled in them. "The person who belonged in that life died six years ago."

"No," he disagreed. "You're still here. And that means that life can be yours again."

She looked up, looked at him fully. "I haven't been here long. If you just close your eyes for five minutes, that's all I'll need. I'll disappear again, and then you can act like I was never here at all. You can go back to your life, back where you belong."

"You have somewhere to belong, too. Somewhere other than with Sandoval." He reached for her, his hand landing beside hers on the bed. Not touching, not yet. "You disappeared once, I'm not going to let it happen again," he said, tears in his voice.

"But this time it'll be my choice." As he shot down her begging with a shake of his head, the first of her tears hit her cheeks. "Please, don't do this to me. Don't do what he did. Let me leave."

Slowly, under the weight of her accusation, he moved his hand away from hers. "Don't compare me to that bastard. I'm nothing like him."

"And he said he wasn't like the bastard before him," she said, drying her cheeks with quick swipes of her hands. "But the truth is, you're all alike. You take what you want and you don't give a damn about what I want." She continued to stare him down, anger bleeding into her eyes. "Why are you doing this, anyway? What do you want from me?"

He forced down a swallow, watching her through narrowed eyes as she jumped to her feet. Towering over him, flush-faced. "I just…" he stammered. "I want to…know."

"Know?" she hissed. "You want to _know_? What, are you asking for details? Imagining isn't good enough, is that it? Or are you just like those sons of bitches at the Federal Building? You dropped the ball, all of you! And now it's too tough to face your own mistakes so you're going to blame me for them instead!"

She stomped past him, leaving him wide-eyed and speechless, as she hurried out of the room. But damn it, she wasn't angry with him; she _wasn't_. It was just that he was trying to get too close too fast, and she wasn't ready. She wasn't ready to let her guard down, to expose herself so fully. He had every right to ask questions, to have those questions answered. But she didn't have the strength to answer them, because she couldn't admit how different from the person he remembered she'd become.

She wasn't who he needed her to be.

She was Elian's damned little mouse.

**xxx**

Hunter came to a stop in the kitchen doorway, glancing back over his shoulder into the empty living room before continuing inside. He acknowledged Charlie with a nod and stepped up to the island, grabbing the half-empty coffee pot and a clean mug. "You get a hold of Ortiz?" he asked, filling the cup.

"I got a hold of her," Charlie confirmed. He sat stiffly at the oval-shaped table, a newspaper spread open in front of him. "We talked about the little girl."

Hunter glanced through the doorway again, hearing the spray of water behind the locked door of the bathroom. Nodding, he pulled a chair away from the table and dropped down across from Charlie.

"How'd it go around here?"

Hunter sighed, scrubbing his hands over his face. "Probably even worse than you think it did." He groaned into his hands, before slapping them down on the tabletop. "What'd Ortiz say?"

Charlie leaned back in the chair, crossing his arms over his chest. "The birth certificate is authentic. This Isabel Ramirez? She's a Colombian immigrant, has a valid green card. Records show she applied for it about five years ago. Based on dates, it would've been right around the time she became pregnant with the girl."

Hunter winced, shaking his head. "If she was ever pregnant."

"Hunter, there's a birth certificate—"

"That Dee Dee says is for her daughter."

"You asked her about Ramirez?" Charlie asked, spiking a brow.

Hunter glanced over his shoulder again, listening for the shower. Hearing the spray, confident that Dee Dee was still out of earshot, he shook his head. "We didn't exactly get that far," he grumbled. "But come on, Charlie. It's Dee Dee we're talking about. Why would she say the kid is hers if she isn't?"

"To protect her?" Charlie suggested. "It'd sure as hell fit with the Dee Dee we know—uh…knew." He shrugged in response to Hunter's scowl. "Maybe this Ramirez woman isn't any closer to being a human being than Elian Sandoval is, and maybe Dee Dee thinks the kid would be better off without her. Or…" He shrugged again, sluggishly. "There's always revenge."

"Revenge?" Hunter snapped.

"It's not that wild of a theory," Charlie returned, "and it's one the Feds are considering. Think about it, Hunter. The son of a bitch took six years from Dee Dee. What better way to get back at him than to take something important from him?"

"Dee Dee wouldn't…" He shook his head, grunting further disagreement. "I don't buy it."

"You might have to. The hard truth is, none of us know Dee Dee anymore. And if we don't know her, we don't know what she's capable of doing."

"So, what? She's going to put herself in the middle of a custody battle knowing upfront how easy it'll be to disprove her? One DNA test, that's all it'll take. And whether it's been six years or thirty, Dee Dee knows that just like we do."

Charlie sank down in the chair, his shoulders sagging. "If she is this girl's mother, why isn't her name on the birth certificate?"

Why wasn't Dee Dee's name on her child's birth certificate, and why was it on a damned marriage certificate? Hunter shook his head, as lost for answers as confused by the past forty-eight-plus hours. _Why_ seemed to be the foremost word pinging in his overwrought mind, with _Tell me_ the plea that consistently followed on it's heels. There were too many questions that he needed answers to, and even more that he never wanted to know. They'd been so sure that Oscar Velasquez was behind Dee Dee's disappearance, so how did she end up with Elian Sandoval? And why hadn't any of them known about Sandoval before—his business affairs, his immorality, or the obvious threat that he was?

But even more than the why, Hunter wanted to know _how_.

How had Sandoval managed to gain control over Dee Dee to begin with? How had he held onto his control? How in the hell had he convinced her to give in?

How had she managed to survive?

"Control," he said, the answer lighting up his mind like a one hundred watt bulb. "This kid is Sandoval's, too, so why did he send her off with Ramirez and Rivera?" He shrugged, as if the conclusion should have been clear to them from the very beginning. "Dee Dee said it herself to Ortiz. If Sandoval finds out she's talked, the kid will be gone for good. So, she has to be the way he's controlling Dee Dee."

Charlie nodded slowly, thoughtfully. "So, we find the kid, that'll put the ball in our court."

"It'll put it in Dee Dee's court," Hunter corrected. "And once that happens, she just might be willing to help us bury the bastard."


	14. Chapter 14

**FOURTEEN**

Hunter stood guard at the pay phone, scanning the scenery around him. The air was rejuvenating, salty but fresh, and the breeze was subtle, tinged with a hint of the warmth the afternoon would bring with it. If it were any other day that had begun under any other circumstances, he would feel ready for it, even excited about it. But despite the sunshine and cloudless sky and fresh air, all he could seem to feel was apprehensive.

The ring of the phone sent him into motion, and he had the receiver in his hand even before the first chime died out. He grunted his "Hello," dropping his head forward in attempt to hide both himself and his side of the conversation that was about to begin.

"Oh, God. Where are you?"

He could hear the desperation in Mallory's voice and could envision what it looked like on her face, in her eyes. And he felt guilty for her having to deal with it. "I probably shouldn't tell you. The less you know, the better."

"Stanton's out for blood, Rick—specifically, yours," Mallory said, her voice hushed. "Every time I turn around, he's right behind me, you know? Four times now he's made me go back to the Federal Building, meet with him and some of the other agents. He's all over this, and he's pissed. So, be careful, okay? Please? He wants you locked up."

"Yeah, well. He has to find me before he can do that."

"Find you, yeah." She laughed softly, tightly. "So, uh. How long do you think this is going to go on? This game of Hide and Seek?"

"Hopefully, it's a game of Hide and Not Get Found," he responded dryly. "And to tell you the truth, I don't know. It'll go on until we know for sure that Dee Dee's safe."

"You think she'll ever be safe? I mean, really? Eventually, maybe, Stanton will give the case Cold Case status. But Sandoval…" She exhaled, the heavy breath relaying her fears. That she was afraid everything had already changed—they had changed, he had changed even more, back into who she'd never wanted him to become again. That what she had begun to believe would become her life no longer would be, because the past had caught up to all of them, it had bowled them over. And it was anyone's guess if they would ever find their footing again.

"Let's just take it one step at a time, huh?" Hunter responded.

"One step, right." She paused, silence filling a minute between them. "So? How's she doing?"

"The best she can, I guess."

"Have you gotten her to tell you anything?"

"Not really. At least she hasn't said anything about Sandoval."

Mallory whined softly, impatiently. "God. I really need to see you."

"What you need to do is go back to Los Angeles. It's not safe for us to keep having these conversations."

"Meet me and then I will go back, I promise. But I need a couple of hours, okay? Time just for us, that's just about us and not anyone else."

"And what if we do that and Stanton has you followed? I'd be arrested on the spot, then what happens to Dee Dee?"

She groaned, with the understanding that, for a while longer at least, she would continue to rank second in Hunter's life. "Then what's the plan? What're we going to do?"

"There isn't a plan, not yet. Look it. Dee Dee's got a long way to go. She's pretty confused right now, pretty…nervous. Everything's happened so fast. But she's starting to feel a little comfortable with me, I think, and I don't want to mess that up by changing things. It's quiet where we're staying, and I think that's good for her."

"So, what? I can't play stupid with Stanton forever. He knows I'm lying about being in touch with you, I can tell."

"Just do the best you can," Hunter responded. He was a bastard; he understood it. Just like he understood that Mallory was trying her damnedest not to accuse him of being exactly that. Not only had he disappeared with barely an explanation or goodbye, but he was hidden away at an undisclosed location with another woman. And not just any woman—a woman he shared a history with, the woman who'd become the sole target of Mallory's jealousy years ago. The ghost that had always haunted their relationship.

"Come home soon?" she whispered. "I miss you."

"Yeah. Me, too. But don't worry, huh? This'll be over before you know it."

"Before I know it…" she repeated, unconvinced. "When can we talk again?"

"I don't know. It's risky, and getting riskier. Just, uh…just." He pressed his forehead against the side of the booth, his eyes closing. "Take care of yourself, all right, and be careful. Don't let your guard down and don't trust anyone—especially if they're with the Feds."

**xxx**

Being the twenty-four hour focus of Hunter's attention was uncomfortable enough, but being the subject of Captain Devane's in depth scrutiny was unbearable.

He was like a kid on Christmas morning, full of nervous energy, unable to sit still. For the better part of the two hours Dee Dee had been alone with him inside of the tiny, pink house, he'd barely let her out of his sight. When she'd gotten up to go to the restroom, he'd followed her. Standing outside of the door, knocking twice, asking both times if she was okay, if she needed anything. And when she went back into the living room, he asked again, and then again if there was anything he could do for her. It was like he was memorizing her—trying to relearn what he could about her. Every move she made, he watched. Her silence, he questioned. Her discomfort, he tried to abate with nervous smiles and inconsequential small talk that she couldn't follow and didn't have an interest participating in.

"You doing okay? Need anything?" the captain asked, as Dee Dee rounded the corner from the hallway, walking into the living room.

As had quickly become their custom, she answered with a grimace and he nodded soberly, tracking her as she refilled her spot in the chair on the opposite side of the coffee table from where he sat on the sofa.

"Hunter should be back soon. He needed to make a call. Shouldn't take long."

Dee Dee nodded. "Is he talking to Agent Ortiz?"

"Uh. Well." Charlie flashed a smile. "Actually, it's…uh. Um, Mallory…Trask. She's a cop, works at Parker Center. Been there for…a while."

"Trask?" Dee Dee asked quickly. It was another name on her Never Say Out Loud list—Jordan Trask. Because the responsibility she felt for his death still haunted her.

"Mallory, yeah," Charlie confirmed. "The DEA agent, he was her husband. She's was on the force when he died, took her sergeant's exam not too long after. She's a good cop, smart. Gets the job done." He clasped his hands together, forcing another smile. "Hunter promised her he'd keep in touch. You know, when we left the Federal Building. But it's okay. It's safe where he goes to make the calls."

Dee Dee thought about trying out the same argument on Captain Devane that she'd already tried with both Hunter and Lydia Ortiz—that no one could hide from Elian. But her tired mind quickly shut down the idea. What made her think he would be the one who finally listened to her, anyway? So far, no one seemed to care much about what she had to say, much less let themselves be convinced by what she knew. Instead, they seemed preoccupied by making one of two decisions—whether or not she was the poor victim of Elian Sandoval needing to be rescued, deserving of being pitied, or if she was his secret accomplice. Deep down just as immoral as he was, just as heartless, and just as deserving of being punished.

"I, uh. Before Hunter and I came to Florida, I filled some of the old guys in on what was happening," the captain stammered, obviously searching for conversation starters in order to keep Dee Dee's silence from completely overtaking their afternoon of forced, one-on-one togetherness. "You remember Stu Hartley and Brad Morgan?" He nodded, like she'd confirmed that she remembered them. "They've been hoping for the best. Said, you know, if things…work out…they'd like to see you. When you, uh, feel up to it."

_When she felt up to it_. False imprisonment was a form of hell on earth but not a terminal disease, Dee Dee considered saying. But only offered the captain a strained smile instead. What did they all think? How did they see her? As broken, was that it, or maybe damaged beyond repair? Did they think she needed to be treated with kid gloves versus as a rational, intelligent adult? Whether or not they believed it, she could handle upsets and letdowns without falling apart or reacting irrationally. She could handle them without feeling anything at all.

It was what the past six years had been about, after all—numbness.

Welcoming it, nurturing it, and in the end, learning to subsist off of it.

"It's good. Work," the captain continued to ramble, his voice a monotone that droned in Dee Dee's ears. "But, uh. Well, it's not like the old days, if you know what I mean."

_The old days_. The words, their denotation, stuck in Dee Dee's throat. That seemed to be where everyone wanted her to return—to something _old_. The good old days, the old Dee Dee, the old way of life, old habits, old feelings, old friendships, old likes, old dislikes… _Old_. And every memory they reminded her of—that they tried to force on her—made her stomach churn.

She couldn't take it anymore. Jesus. She just needed to scream, to rant, to throw a damned tantrum. Admittedly, in the _old days_ there wouldn't be awkward lapses in conversation with the captain, there wouldn't be any awkwardness between them at all. But, damn it, the old days were gone, dead and buried just like they'd all spent the past six years believing she was. She didn't want to relive them or try to reclaim them, and she sure as hell didn't want to know about the pieces and portions of them she'd missed out on.

They were gone, just like the old Dee Dee was.

And that was how she wanted both to stay.

Charlie nodded at her, attempting a smile. "You look good, Dee Dee."

She forced a smile of her own, one that materialized hard, tensed. "Does that surprise you? That I look good?" She arched her brows, the captain's face flushing. "That's what a lot of money and free time gets you—the luxury of taking care of yourself. Elian likes it, you know, when I look my best." Her smile broadened, turning cold. "I guess men are all alike, no matter who they are."

She didn't know why but the captain was bringing out her anger as much as Hunter had. Making her feel impatient, agitated. Maybe it was his nervousness or his damned watchfulness, she didn't know. But every second she'd spent trapped inside of the pink house with him made her feel like she was suffocating a little more.

The captain fought down a swallow, his face glowing crimson. "Important to Elian? He, uh…he—"

"Has specific tastes," she cut in tersely, without remorse. Lifting her right hand, she turned it so that her nails faced the captain. "Weekly manicures and pedicures, nails always painted red." Running her fingers through a silky clump of hair, she continued. "Visits from a hair stylist every six weeks. Hair dyed dark ash brown—the color Elian likes. Ends no higher than my shoulder blades, that's the rule." She took in a breath, pressing the backs of her squared shoulders into the chair. "I wear the clothes he picks out, perfume he likes, even use the toothpaste he prefers. He picks it all."

The ruddiness drained from the captain's face, stark white replacing it. Trying—and failing—to be inconspicuous, he looked her up and then down, taking in her clothes, hair, nails, even studying her toes. His obviousness made her chuckle, coolly at least, and she shook her head in reprimand of what she knew he was thinking. _She was stronger than that_. Than to let herself become so controlled, so damned subservient.

So different from the old Dee Dee.

"What else do you want to know?" she pressed. "Go ahead. Ask." She leaned forward stiffly, her eyes narrowing. "I was rebellious, wasn't I, never afraid of breaking the rules? That's what Agent Ortiz said was written in my file. It's how people thought of me, how they saw me. So, how could someone like that become someone like this?" She cocked a brow tautly, glaring. "Isn't that the question you've been trying to figure out how to ask? Isn't it what you really want to know?"

Damn it. She was angry.

Her chest was tight, her lungs felt like stones—unable to expand, heavy. Her anger was beginning to boil, to rage. And she wanted it to. Damn it, she wanted to get rid of it. To give it to anyone else, everyone else.

"Dee Dee. No, I…I—"

She jumped to her feet and headed across the room, her heavy stomps drowning out the captain's meekly spoken, "I'm sorry." Unbolting and then yanking open the front door, she spun back around, staring down a pale-faced Charlie. "Have you ever noticed at the zoo how they keep the animals on a schedule, only take them out to play at certain times?" she hissed, her knuckles whitening as she strangled the doorknob. "They clean them up, feed them, show them off a little, and when they get tired of them they lock them back in their cages? _That's_ who I am—exactly who Elian wants me to be."

The captain jumped to his feet, reaching for her although he didn't dare take a step toward her. "Dee Dee, I didn't mean— No! Just close the door, huh, and come back inside? It isn't a good idea for you to go outside—"

"Don't worry," she shot back. "I've been well trained. I know what's expected of me, and I never break the rules anymore."

**xxx**

"Gone?" Hunter barked, reaching instinctively for the Glock holstered at his side. "What the hell do you mean, she's_ gone_?"

Charlie dragged his palm across his forehead, shaking his head. "We were…I was trying to…" He sighed, dejected. "I didn't mean to upset her—"

"Just tell me where she went!" Hunter snapped. "We'll worry about what happened after we find her!"

They stood at the doorway, Charlie one step inside of the house and Hunter one step outside of it. Around them, unnoticed and focused on at the same time, cars rolled up and down the street, dogs barked, and further in the distance children screamed and laughed. But inside the house, what screamed deafeningly at Hunter was the silence.

"We were just…talking…" Charlie stammered, his forehead dotted with sweat. "Or, uh. More like I was trying to talk to her. And I…I don't know what happened. I don't know what set her off."

"Damn it!" Hunter hissed, slamming a fist into the doorframe. He winced with the sting, growling further curses under his breath as the ordinary sounds around them suddenly, to his ringing ears, turned menacing. "How long has she been gone?"

"Maybe twenty minutes? Could be a little less."

"Okay. She's on foot, she couldn't have gotten far."

Charlie blurted a laugh, the resonance tense, humorless. "Twenty minutes ago, Hunter, it was Dee Dee McCall laying into me. And the Dee Dee McCall I remember could make it to hell and back in twenty minutes, if she set her mind to it."

**xxx**

She didn't know how long she'd been walking or what direction she was going. Each house she passed looked like the others around it, their exteriors either stucco or pastel with shutters framing the windows, the front doors plain, wooden. Dogs yapped at her from a few of the front yards, strangers stared at her from a couple others, but she didn't acknowledge any of them.

She just walked.

Fast. Determined.

Directionless.

Turning a corner, she spotted a park. With the sunlight beginning to fade, it was temporarily abandoned. Empty swings glided in the breeze, the slide sparkled under what remained of the sun's strength, and one end of teeter-totter was flush with the ground while the other end remained perched in the air.

She crossed the street, not bothering to check for oncoming traffic first. Her heeled sandals clicked against the asphalt, tight, steady echoes that morphed into soft thuds as she stepped up the curb and into the plush grass that carpeted the playground. Halfway into the park, she slid out of her right shoe. Flipping the leather sandal over in her hand, she studied it, scrutinized it, and then tossed it over her shoulder before repeating the process with the left one. If Elian saw her toss the shoes away like they were yesterday's garbage, he would be angry. He spent a lot of money on her after all, more money than someone like she was worth. And after he reminded her about that, he would remind her that she had an image to reflect—his image. Expensive and cultured, not common but extraordinary.

Glancing back, she caught sight of the shoes. One had landed sole-up in the grass, the other on its side. If she could, she would rip off the linen pants and silk blouse, too. And she wouldn't stop there. Next to go would be the pink lace panties and matching bra that were Elian's favorites, that made her feel like his hands were on her when she wore them. She would rid herself of everything his money had paid for, everything that held his scent.

But it would only be the outer layer, Elian's expensive packaging.

And removing that wouldn't really change anything, least of all her.

**xxx**

It had been hard enough doing a semi-accurate search of the unfamiliar neighborhood with the aid of sunlight, and Hunter knew it would be nearly impossible to accomplish in the dark. Sounds were coming at him from all sides, overlapping each other, keeping him on edge. _Damn it_. What was Dee Dee thinking? She knew procedures, protocol, how to lay low when she needed to. She knew—

He gnawed at the inside of his cheek, biting until tears stung his eyes.

No, Dee Dee didn't know. She didn't know how badly he wanted to be near her, how much he needed to be. Not to take advantage of her, or take away more of her control like her suspicion-filled eyes told him she believed he wanted to do, but just to be close. She didn't know that he'd never given up searching for her. He'd searched unfamiliar faces until he convinced himself that he found something familiar—the curve of a smile, arch of eyebrows, or the passion visible in expressive eyes. He took each semi-familiar trait and put it with others he found, reconstructing her feature by feature, piece by piece, stranger by stranger, until the parts blended together perfectly.

Until they blended into her.

If he were going to be truthful, he didn't know any more than she did. He didn't know what her life had become, what the bastard had forced it to become. And maybe he didn't want to know; maybe knowing wasn't what he needed. What he needed was to save her from that life like he should've done in the beginning. It was what she would've expected him to do, and sure as hell what he would've expected from her if the situation had been reversed—to save the one in need of being saved.

But when she had needed him most, he'd let her down.

He let her slip away.

And no matter how many faces he searched, he'd never been able to find her.

**xxx**

When she was a child, it had been her mother's and her tradition to watch _It's A Wonderful Life_ on Christmas Eve. They would change into pajamas, settle in side-by-side on the sofa, gorge themselves on empty calorie foods and watch the movie together. It had been nice, Dee Dee remembered—relaxing. Something that she looked forward to every year almost more than she anticipated what presents she would find under the tree on Christmas morning.

It was a tradition she'd carried on even after she'd grown and moved out on her own, and it was the only part of her past she'd held onto inside of Elian's house.

Now, she found irony in it. It was like she'd stepped into the role of George Bailey. She was seeing firsthand how life had moved on without her, how the lives she'd once held a place in had changed without her, and how the people she'd once cared the most about had adjusted to living without her.

She'd become an eyewitness to the effects of her absence.

George Bailey had stood on a snow-covered bridge outside of Bedford Falls contemplating his future, deciding whether or not to jump. And she'd done the same thing at the edge of the cliff in Malibu, with the water raging beneath her. In the end, they'd both reached a decision, and the decisions they'd made hadn't worked out very well for either of them. George eventually saw the downfalls of his absence; he felt the pain of nonexistence, the want to be a part of what he'd left behind.

But she only felt the pain of existence.

And all she wanted was to leave it behind for good.

**xxx**

"Damn it…" Hunter mumbled, tripping over the low-lying curb as he stepped up onto the sidewalk. The moon was being a son of a bitch at best, lending him only a quarter of its brightness to light his path, and with low-wattage lampposts only sporadically lining the street, his surroundings had become shadowed and indistinct.

Dee Dee's unexpected escape wasn't Charlie's fault, although Hunter had spent the majority of his seven-block hike blaming him. Charlie should've done something to stop her. It was Dee Dee, for God's sake. To stand up to her you had to take on the mindset and stubbornness of a steamroller; Charlie remembered that as well as Hunter did. And now she was even worse. Her behavior was unpredictable and untrustworthy. Her reactions were spontaneous and thoughts disconnected.

Hunter knew she'd been gone long enough that it was possible he might not catch up with her at all. If there was even a fraction of the old Dee Dee's spirit that was unscarred, she could already be halfway to Colombia. Sandoval's private plane be damned, she would make the trek under her own steam, whether it was paddling a rowboat or doing the fucking dogpaddle. She could have already managed to disappear again, and this time, like she'd promised him, she would make sure it was forever.

The thought hit him, at least for a second—let her do it, just let her go. He thought about throwing in the towel and calling off his search once and for all. All things considered, maybe it would be for the best. There wouldn't be any more awkward moments to fight his way through, no more searching impassive eyes for some sign of the woman he once knew inside and out. There wouldn't be any more tears or anger or blame.

There would only be emptiness.

And he'd had already learned how to co-exist with that.

He came to a stop on a corner, bathed in the diffused light of a lamppost, his eyes narrowed in a fight against the darkness. He was tired and frustrated and out of patience, and the longer his unexpected hike was extended, the more his rotten mood veered in Dee Dee's direction versus Charlie's. Why in the hell couldn't she understand what they were trying to do for her? She'd been hurt; he got that. Maybe he didn't know the depth of her hurt, but in his mind, at least, his repellent thoughts were comparable enough to what she'd suffered through to be able to, eventually, understand it.

He stepped down from the curb, crossing the street. As he stepped up another curb and into the soft grass, he stopped.

Because of her.

The park was quiet, deserted. She sat on a wooden bench, folded over with her forehead resting on her knees and arms crossed over her midsection. She rocked softly, fluidly, lost in the past and unaware of the present. As he got closer, he could see that she was shaking. Maybe it was because of the chill in the air; maybe it was because of something altogether different. He didn't know and didn't intend to ask; he simply slid out of his jacket and draped the garment over her shoulders.

"I'm sorry," she whispered as the bench creaked with the addition of his weight. But she didn't look up. She didn't look at him.

"You scared the hell out of Charlie and me."

Hesitantly, she straightened, turning toward him and devouring him with sorrow-filled eyes. "I had to get out of there. I had to…the way he kept looking at me, like he needed something from me. I just. I…" She sighed, her head drooping forward. "I didn't know what to say to him."

"You don't have to say anything."

"It's what he's waiting for—an explanation, some kind of reason. It's what you're waiting for, too." She lifted her head, aiming her face at the starless sky. "I'm married to him. Knowing that, why would anyone believe anything I say?"

"I know, and I believe you."

She smiled faintly, sadly, disbelieving him. "It isn't all horrible, you know. So, stop beating yourself up, all right?" Her smile turned to one of knowing, of understanding and interpreting the guilt that was so prevalent in his eyes.

"It isn't what you chose. That alone makes it pretty horrible, don't you think?"

"I don't know. I don't know what I think anymore." Her fingers roamed aimlessly over the bottom edge of the beige jacket he'd draped over her, feeling their way across the hem, tiptoeing up the zippered front. "You really want to know what my life is like?" She glanced at him, her smile having wilted. "It's privileged. At least that's what Elian tells me. It's what the people who work for him tell me, too." She shrugged a shoulder, holding his stare. "He buys me things, nice things. He buys whatever I ask for. He told me in the beginning that he'd give me a comfortable life, and he has. He didn't lie about that."

"But has he given you the life you want?" Hunter asked warily. "Has it ever been what you've wanted?"

She hesitated; Hunter's suspicion heightening with each second that silence filled. He needed to hear her say it—No. Unequivocally. With as much anger in her as he had.

_He needed to hear her say it._

To know that the past six years hadn't been lived in vain, his searches had had a purpose to them. She'd wanted to come home as much as he'd wanted her to. Life had handed them a raw deal, and even though there were times when he wondered whether or not he could survive it, he had. He did.

And he'd done it for only reason: with hope that she was surviving, too.

That she would survive long enough for him to atone for his mistake and bring her home again.

"It's like being in prison," she finally said, whispered. "The cell he keeps me in is fancy. It's, uh. It's beautiful, really. But the door is always locked; my time is never my own. And even though people know that, they still say I'm privileged, that I'm…lucky."

"I'm sorry, honey."

Her expression crinkled, questioning filling her eyes. "Why? Why are you sorry? What'd you lose?"

_Everything,_ he wanted to say, to scream. He wanted to grab her and shake her and beg her to understand. _He_ _had lost everything_. And he wanted her to understand that. He needed her to understand it. But she couldn't. Not yet, maybe not ever, and no more than he would ever be able to completely understand everything that she'd lost.

"Don't feel sorry for me," she said, strength taking command of her voice. "I don't want anyone to feel sorry for me. Whatever he took from me, I let him. He wanted control, and I gave it to him. I gave him everything." She rose slowly, walking toward the abandoned playground, but stopping after only a few, unsteady steps. "Everyone's acting like I should feel relieved because he's in jail, but I don't. I don't know how I feel. I mean, I've been with him a long time, and whether or not it's where I've wanted to be doesn't matter. It's my life now." She turned partially. Not facing him, but no longer hiding from him, either. "I'm forty-years-old, and what do I have? I don't have my own home, or money, or friends. I'll never have my career again. I'll never have any of the things I had before. But with Elian, I have something. I have a place to belong, at least."

"You belong here, Dee Dee," Hunter argued, receiving a sigh from her in response. "So, you're forty, so what? You really think your life is over because of a number?" He climbed to his feet, dipping his head to glimpse in her down-turned face. "Maybe you don't have a home of your own yet, or a job, but you're forgetting one pretty important thing that you do have." He smiled softly, encouragingly, as she turned to face him. "What about your daughter? If you give up, who does she have then?"

She laughed softly, the moonlight catching hold of the tears in her eyes and setting them afire. "She's never had me," she answered. "I'm not her mother. I was just the means for her to come into the world."

"What's that mean?"

She shrugged a shoulder, her expression emptying of emotion.

"What's it mean, Dee Dee?"

She flashed a smile, both regret and belief becoming perceptible in her face. "Not everyone is fit to be a parent," she said, matter of fact. "Just because you can have a child doesn't make you a suitable role model." The emotions drained from her face, leaving her blank. Empty again.

"But she's…" He bit into his bottom lip, hesitating. "She's yours? Your little girl?"

Her smile reemerged meekly. "I don't know. Sometimes I wonder if she really is." She ran a hand through her hair, tossing the long strands over her shoulders. "Damn," she sighed. "I'm tired—tired of this already. So, how am I supposed to make a life out of it for myself or anyone else?"

"A life out of what?"

"This," she said stronger, sternly. "Hiding. Trying to stay hidden. Hoping to stay hidden."

"It won't be forever," he responded, hoping it sounded like a promise versus another useless wish. "Once the Feds put together their case against Sandoval—"

"Oh, come on," she laughed. "I remember you, and I know you're not that naive."

"Dee Dee. We'll stay hidden."

"Not we," she corrected with a firm shake of her head. "Me."

Hunter interpreted the remainder of her thought through the intensity in her eyes. It sparked in spite of her tears, making it clear that she didn't want his help, maybe she didn't even trust it anymore. And it cut through him. Leaving behind a rage that escalated to uncontrollable faster than any he had ever felt before. Because she was right, she'd given Sandoval everything. And he began to understand—for the first time, begrudgingly—that he might not ever get any of her back. Not to the degree he'd planned or hoped, at least. The woman in front of him was merely a shell of the person he'd put all of his faith and trust in a lifetime ago, the person he'd felt lucky to be able to call his friend—_best friend_. But now the brutal truth was, she was just one more stranger who he wanted to find something familiar in but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't.

"Don't do that," she commanded suddenly, startling him. "Don't look at me like Charlie does."

_I'm trying to find you_, his mind answered. But instead of giving her the truth, he merely begged her again. "We just want to help you. Let us do that, will you?"

Her stare hardened, the intensity in her eyes turning to anger. "I never asked for your help."

"Maybe not. But you need it, don't you think?"

She scooted around him, coming to an abrupt stop side-by-side with a tree. Looking as tired as she'd confessed to feeling, she leaned a shoulder into the rough bark, handing the task of supporting her to the fat trunk.

Remaining still, where she'd left him, Hunter looked her up and down. Studying her hair that was longer and a shade darker than he remembered, and how her shoulders seemed to naturally slump instead of square with purpose like they'd once done. She was different. He saw it; he felt it even more. And it made him wonder—it made him fear—how broken was too broken to be able to be pieced back together again?

He took a step toward her, and then another, careful to leave distance between them. "What'd he do to you?" he asked, his voice far weaker than the exhale she retaliated to his curiosity with.

"Don't."

"Tell me."

She spun around, her eyes widened, warning him to back off. "Why? So, you can decide if it was enough?"

"Enough?" he stammered, shaking his head.

"Lydia Ortiz told me. She told me what people think, that they're wondering if I'm just as guilty as Elian. And why shouldn't they? It was six years—_six years_. That much time, I should've been able to find a way out, shouldn't I?" She laughed gruffly, tearfully, and shoved her right hand out between them. In the dim lighting, the scar that marked her palm was highlighted, looking puffier than normal, more ragged. Repulsive. "If you're lucky, that's the worst that happens when you fight Elian. And if you're not, you end up like Thomas Landry, with a bullet in your head. So, screw you for needing details. Screw you for needing the same proof those others sons of bitches need."

"I never said I need proof."

"But you want it."

"I want to help you."

"Why?"

"Because—" His voice caught in his throat. It was a fucking, open-ended answer. _Because_. I owe it to you. I screwed up the first time. I never stopped believing you would come back. I've missed you. I care about you. I need you back.

_Because I lost everything, too_.

Dee Dee shook her head, whimpering softly. Turning away from him, brushing her hands over her cheeks, she fell back against the tree. Fought out. Exhausted.

"I'm sorry," Hunter whispered, giving her the only answer that seemed to make any sense out of the multitude spinning in his brain.

"You're sorry for you," she returned coolly. "Not for me."

"That's not true."

"No? Then why are you making this about you?"

Was that what he was doing? Because it was what Mallory had accused him of doing, too. In the beginning, when she still had the energy to argue about what they both knew she was right about. _"This is about Dee Dee, Rick, not you. It's Dee Dee who suffered, Dee Dee who lost. Let her be an example of how short life can be, how much you should cherish what you have—the time that you have. Don't stop living because she did, because if you do that, you'll be doing a disservice to her. So, honor her by coming back to the living. Don't tarnish her memory by making her death the reason for yours."_ Mallory was smart, insightful. He'd figured it out the first time they'd met, and he believed it still. And just like the first time she'd given him the lecture, the memory of it still pissed the hell out of him. He'd thought he was being noble, even respectful. Never once had he seen himself as being selfish.

After all, if he gave up everything he still had that would somehow make up for Dee Dee being left with nothing, wouldn't it?

"We thought you were dead," he attempted to explain, to excuse his selfishness.

"I wanted to be."

"But they told me you _were_," he pressed.

She glanced back at him, staring for a moment before turning fully to face him. "Is that supposed to make me feel sorry for you?"

He shook his head, tears filling his eyes. "No."

"Good. Because it doesn't."

"It makes me feel sorry for you," he said. Finally feeling the strength bubbling inside of him that he needed in order to be honest with both of them. "There was blood, DNA. The Feds closed your case, and I let them. Even though something inside of me kept saying things weren't right, they weren't adding up…" He shrugged faintly, truthfully versus apologetically. "I looked. I traveled, followed up on leads. But mostly, I quit on you, and that's something I promised you I'd never do. And I'm…" His voice broke, dwindling to a whisper. "I'm so sorry."

Through his tears, he watched hers gain life. They dropped onto her cheeks two at a time, three at a time, strengthening instead of weakening. Standing in front of him, bathed in the soft moonlight, she looked raw. Vulnerable.

As broken as his mind feared she'd become.

She was new to him, unknown. But the realization didn't frighten him anymore; it didn't make him want to quit. Not on her again, not because of her again. For the first time in six years, it made living feel exciting, something he was actually thankful for instead of exhausted by.

She was back.

And, damn it, he _was_ one selfish son of a bitch.

Maybe she wasn't the same as when she'd left, but then again, neither was he. So, maybe instead of spending so much damned time cursing what he'd lost, he should focus on feeling grateful for a fresh start. They'd been given something they could work on together. Something to build from scratch, to put their efforts into strengthening instead of piecing together shards that would never again fit together as well as they once had.

"I'm going to help you," he choked out, nodding, begging her to believe him, to trust him. "But you're right, this is your life, and that means the choices have to be yours. So, you tell me what you need, tell me what'll help. And whatever that is, I promise you, I'll do it." He saw change instantly take hold of her, relief easing the tension in her face. And he realized that was all he'd had to do; it was the only thing she needed from him. _Control_. As simple as it seemed, it was what she needed given back to her the most.

She sniffled, sliding her hands shakily across her cheeks. "No more questions."

He nodded once, eagerly. "Not tonight."

"Not ever."

He hesitated, knowing that was one promise he wouldn't be able to keep. But he didn't want to ruin her suddenly semi-receptive mood by stating the obvious, so he nodded again. Not as enthusiastically as before, but strong enough that Dee Dee would be able to pretend for a little while, at least.

Brushing the backs of his hands across his cheeks, he motioned toward the deserted street with a tilt of his head. "Come on. Ortiz is going to have both our asses if she finds out we've been out here."

Dee Dee stepped ahead of him timidly. Making her way through the thick, damp grass, she passed by the first sandal without giving it a glance, but stopped as she approached the second one. She looked back over her shoulder at him, a soft smile having replaced her tears, and she broke their uncharacteristically comfortable silence.

"Rick."

His brows dipped, and he came to a stop beside her. "Yeah?"

She shook her head. "Nothing." In a flash, her smile broadened and then faded just as quickly. "I just. I don't know. I wanted to say your name."


	15. Chapter 15

**FIFTEEN**

Hunter crouched beside the window, peering out from behind the curtains, his gun locked in a death grip in his right hand. He watched the cab idling in front of the house, as the back, passenger's side door opened and one booted foot emerged and then a second one.

From his vantage point, he had a clear shot. An easy shot.

And he was prepared to take it.

Lydia Ortiz shoved the cab door closed with a swing of her hips; the handle of a tan duffle bag clutched in one hand and a briefcase shoved under her other arm. She made her way through the yard with quick steps, her breaths rushed enough to make the rises and falls of her chest visible. As she stumbled up onto the porch, Hunter deserted his hiding spot and headed for the door, ripping it open as Ortiz's right foot shot out in preparation of giving the barrier a firm kick.

"Relax, Dirty Harry," she sighed breathlessly, as Hunter lowered his gun and slid it back into its holster. With a roll of her eyes, she pushed past him and made her way into the center of the living room, depositing both bags on the coffee table. "It's customary for the Welcome Wagon to get a cup of coffee for her trouble, not a slug between the eyes."

"What're you doing here?" Hunter growled, stealing a glance outside before closing and bolting the door.

Lydia grunted a laugh. "That's a fine how-do-you-do considering it is my house."

Hunter shook his head, catching sight of Dee Dee peeking around the corner of the hallway. With a wave of his hand, he urged her into the room. "You remember Agent Ortiz?"

Lydia nodded her 'hello' as Dee Dee came to a stop behind the sofa, and pointed a finger at the duffle bag on the coffee table. "Brought you some clothes," she announced. "Don't get too excited, they're nothing fancy. Some undergarments, a pair of jeans, couple of t-shirts, flip flops." She chuckled, her belly jiggling, as she looked Dee Dee up and then down. "And don't worry, I didn't raid my own closet. Actually made a trip to the mall with that friend of your old partner's—Trask. Size-wise, you look pretty close to me."

Dee Dee glanced at the bag, nodding. "Thanks."

"You didn't answer my question," Hunter cut in impatiently. "What're you doing here?"

"Give your blood pressure a break, huh?" Lydia scoffed. "Everything's fine. No one followed me."

"You're sure?" Hunter pressed.

Lydia answered first with a sharp roll of her eyes, before saying, "I turned a thirty minute commute into two hours of travel. An hour of it by car, another twenty minutes on a bus, and the last forty minutes spent in a taxi that smelled like a half-rotted tuna had smoked a couple packs of Marlboros in it." She ran a hand through the side of her hair, shaking her head. "If anyone managed to keep up with me through all of that, he deserves to get his hands on our little pot of gold here at the end of the rainbow."

Hunter shook his head, grumbling under his breath. "It's still risky for you to be here."

"Didn't have much of a choice," Lydia returned, nodding in Dee Dee's direction. "We have a lot to talk about."

Hunter's stare darted between the two women. He saw Dee Dee tense, the tips of her fingers digging into the top of the sofa cushion. He wasn't kidding himself, he knew they'd only managed to work their way through one baby step the night before in the park, but one step forward—no matter how small—was better than a full leap backwards. Dee Dee wasn't ready to be pushed; she wasn't strong enough. She wasn't sure enough about herself yet. And if he let Ortiz start pushing, he knew the overly opinionated, tactless FBI agent would cause Dee Dee to close up even tighter than she'd been when he'd first dragged her into the pink house two nights earlier.

"I don't think it's a good idea," he said, garnering a glare from Ortiz.

"And I don't remember asking what you thought," the agent rebutted. "Look, here's the deal. My buddies in suits are working like hell to pull together solid evidence against Sandoval. So far, though, all they really have are some drug charges—importing, supplying. But nothing that's going to get him the time he deserves behind bars. And, Ms. McCall, you were right on the mark when you said none of his trained hounds would talk against him. Right now, collectively, they're pulling off better Helen Keller impersonations than you did."

Dee Dee shook her head. "Elian never talked to me about his work. All I know is what I managed to overhear."

Lydia backed up a step and dropped down in the wingback chair, crossing one bulky leg over the other. "Don't need you to tell me about his work," she answered crisply. "What I need is for you to tell me about you." She cocked an under-plucked eyebrow, her stare shooting over the top rims of her glasses. "We know Sandoval deals in more than just drugs. What we consider to be reliable gossip has us believing he traffics more live bodies than illegal substances. Now, maybe you can't tell us about those bodies or what happens to them once they're brought into this country, but you can tell us what happened to you. Because the thing is, right now, Ms. McCall, those hounds of Sandoval's are acting like everything that did happen was exactly what you wanted to happen. No one was kidnapped, no one was held against her will, and no one needs justice in payment for what she was put through."

Hunter heard the sharp inhale Dee Dee reacted with, and he watched her face go pale. She once again resembled the stranger he'd first seen in the interrogation room at the Federal Building. Nervous, jittery, unsure of herself and even more unsure of anyone who claimed that her best interest was their only interest.

"You're pushing," he growled, a scowl directed at Ortiz.

"I don't have a choice right now," she shot back, "and unless my generally dependable intuition has done a one-eighty in the wrong direction, neither does Ms. McCall."

Hunter made his way to the sofa, remaining at the side, keeping the amount of distance between the two of them that he knew Dee Dee determined to be safe. "What do you mean?"

"It's called passing the buck," Lydia answered, matter of fact. "Surely a veteran of the police force like yourself knows all about that. Someone comes through who's looking at more years in prison than they know they have time left on this earth to serve and it makes that someone start pointing fingers in hopes of getting their sentence reduced. Sandoval and his hounds know we have them for the drugs, no one's fighting that. But adding a whole lot of uglier charges to those fairly simple ones?" She shook her head. "Even a well-trained hound knows he's going to come out on the losing end if that happens."

"What do you need from me?" Dee Dee asked timidly.

"Your story," Lydia responded. Leaning forward, she grabbed hold of the briefcase and tugged it across the table to the edge. She began to dig inside, cursing under her breath as the unidentifiable contents rustled and jingled as she sifted through them, before announcing her victory with a broad smile and cheerful, "Gotcha!" Pulling her hand out of the bag, she held up into view a tiny tape recorder, her thumb already situated over the 'record' button. "We're going to shut up the nay-sayers once and for all. Considering I don't feel all that comfortable with shoving you back into the belly of the beast just yet, I figure we'll go the next best route. We're going to tape your statement."

Dee Dee devoured Hunter with her apprehensive stare, shaking her head faintly, feebly, in disagreement of Lydia's idea.

"Tape it…" Hunter began. "It would've been better if we'd had some time to prepare—"

"What, you wanted me to slip a Hallmark card in the mail to let you know I'd be dropping by?" Lydia snapped. "Look. How about we go with the sugarless version of this story instead of the sugar-coated one?" She uncrossed her legs, leaning forward and digging the tips of her elbows into her thighs. "Gideon Stanton is making life hell for everyone who has anything to do with this case. He's out for blood, Hunter—specifically yours, your captain's, your old partner's here, and mine. For whatever reason, he's convinced that Elian Sandoval and Ms. McCall are Clyde Barrow and Bonnie Parker instead of perpetrator and victim. Twisted or not, that's his theory, and he's spouting it to anyone who'll listen. And that includes Anthony Corbin, the Bureau Director who's heading up this fiasco. Now…" She pushed on her thighs, straightening. "Corbin's a good man, and through my conversations with him I've reached the conclusion that he's just as tired of hearing Stanton talk as the rest of us are. But tired or not, he can't shut Stanton up unless he has the ammunition to do it. And right now, well. There's only one person who can supply us with what we need."

Hunter shook his head, hard, convicted. "No. It's too—"

"I'll do it."

_Soon_, his mind finished, as his wide-eyed stare questioned Dee Dee. She would do it? Was that what she said? She was ready to talk? Disclose? Pick scabs off of hurts that she'd bandaged and tried like hell to forget and let them become fresh wounds again? And if it was what she finally felt ready to do—capable to do—why was Lydia Ortiz the one she'd decided was trustworthy enough to hear what she had to say?

"Well. How do you like that?" Lydia grinned toothily. "Not only can she talk, but she's pretty damn smart, too."

"It's not a good idea," Hunter interjected, resentment quivering in his voice. "You shouldn't say anything without a lawyer present, Dee Dee—"

"A lawyer?" Lydia snapped. "Why the hell does she need a lawyer?" She turned her attention on Dee Dee, her brows flattening. "You done something wrong?"

Dee Dee swallowed hard, audibly, shaking her head. "I don't think so."

"Well, then," Lydia grumbled, shrugging. "Why put off swinging the bat 'til tomorrow when we can knock the ball out of the park today?"

"Wait," Dee Dee said quickly, passing a timorous glance to Hunter. "Just the two of us. All right?"

"You've got yourself another deal," Lydia returned, before directing Hunter toward the hallway with a flit of her head. "So, in other words, Hunter, go do your nails or something. Ms. McCall and I need some girl time."

_Just the two of them? Fucking girl time? _Hunter swallowed his hurt—along with his pride—and stepped around the back of the sofa, closer to a rigid Dee Dee. "You're sure about this?" he prodded. "Because if you're not, you don't have to do it. You don't have to do anything you're not ready—"

"When we want your opinion, Hunter, we'll let you know," Lydia reproached. "Right now, though, we just want you to leave." She enveloped Hunter in a narrowed-eye glare, nodding toward the hallway with more vigor. "Scoot now. If we need your help, we know where to find you."

**xxx**

She had nice eyes, Dee Dee reminded herself.

It was what she'd decided about the otherwise abrasive Lydia Ortiz at some point while locked inside of the interrogation room with her. _She had nice eyes_. Kind eyes. Eyes that, for whatever reason, made Dee Dee feel like she could trust the woman who viewed the world so straightforwardly through them.

"This is good, real good." Lydia directed Dee Dee around the sofa, leading her with her trustworthy eyes to the centermost cushion. As Dee Dee sat down, stiffly and with her stomach trying to wedge its way into her throat, Lydia situated the tape recorder on top of the coffee table between them. "This is the way it works," she instructed. "I ask the questions, you answer them. I need every answer in the verbal form, no nods or shakes of your head. You can elaborate all you want, or just give me a definite yes or no. I'll leave the decision up to you to give me the information you think I need."

Dee Dee crossed her right leg over her left one, and then uncrossed and re-crossed them. Truth be told, she wanted to ask the first question. _Was it too late to change her mind? _Maybe she was working solo without an attorney, but Elian wasn't. He'd had three with him around the clock, none of who liked to lose she'd been promised. And she knew that whatever she said, whatever secrets she decided the kind-eyed woman needed to know, Elian's attorneys would know sooner rather than later, too. So, that made what she was doing risky and definitely stupid—unforgivable to Elian. Christ. She might as well save everyone the trouble and buy her own one-way ticket to Russia.

"Ready?" Lydia asked. She nodded, continuing to until, hesitantly, Dee Dee returned the gesture. "All right then. Let's get this party started." She leaned forward and depressed the 'record' button on the tape recorder, remaining hunched forward. "This is Special Agent Lydia Ortiz, Federal Bureau of Investigation, and I'm conducting an official interview with Dee Dee McCall." She flashed a reassuring smile as Dee Dee began to fidget. "Not to point the finger at any of the non-believers, but to appease Special Agent Gideon Stanton, could you please give me some information that will verify who you are? Let's start with, uh. Say, your legal name?"

Dee Dee cleared her throat, her gaze dropping to the tape recorder. Like it was the device itself that she had to prove herself to. "Dee Dee…" She exhaled loudly, tensely. "Dee Dee Sandoval…uh. McCall."

"It's been a while, I know, but how about something, like...your badge num—

"Three fifty-eight," Dee Dee broke in, sounding almost urgent as she blurted out the requested information. "I was a Detective Sergeant in the Homicide Division, first at Metropolitan Police Department and then Parker Center in Los Angeles, California. My, uh…my… partner…was Rick Hunter, badge number, uh. Eighty-nine." She smiled softly, a blush sweeping her cheeks, as Lydia responded with obvious awe. Pushing back against the sofa, she begged her tensed body to relax. She could do this—she'd said that she could do it. Hunter had tried to give her an out. He'd practically begged her to take one. But she'd felt ready then, when the spotlight wasn't glaring on her, blinding her, but rather cast to the side, only shining at her indirectly.

"Ms. McCall?"

She startled at the unfamiliar softness in Lydia's voice, and nodded even though she didn't know whether or not another question had been asked. In her head, Elian's voice was overpowering Lydia's soothing one. Belittling her, threatening her, promising consequences that would be far worse than the crime that his narrow mind determined she'd committed.

"You doing okay? Still with me?"

Dee Dee nodded jerkily, with uncertainty. The truth was, she felt like Alice and she hadn't landed at the bottom of the rabbit hole yet. She'd been falling for six years, hoping for a soft landing, instinctively knowing it would be anything but. And second by second, minute by minute, the fear of what would happen when she finally hit rock bottom kept building.

"All right then," Lydia encouraged, a strained smile stretching her lips. "Let's get to the hard stuff. June seventeenth, 1990, what happened to you on that day, Ms. McCall?"

"There was, uh…a raid. My partner and I volunteered to be a part of it, to help capture John Diego Velasquez. Our specific job was to find the DEA's undercover agent, Jordan Trask, and get him out of the warehouse. But, uh…" She shook her head, her hands knotted in her lap. "Trask and I, we were taken by Velasquez's men."

"The two of you—Jordan Trask and you? You were kept together?"

Dee Dee answered first with a nod, before remembering Lydia's rule of verbal answers only and whispering a confirming, "Yes. Until, um…until Trask was killed. Shot."

"Where were Agent Trask and you kept, do you know?"

"A small building, like a shed. At the time, I didn't know for sure where we were, what city. I assumed we were still in California."

Lydia nodded, confirming her guess. "Malibu. It was one of John Diego Velasquez's properties."

"He wasn't there," Dee Dee responded quickly. "I was told he'd been killed in the raid."

"Told? By who, do you remember?"

His name stuck in Dee Dee's throat, turning sour, acidic. She tried to never say it; she'd sworn to herself that she never would. She couldn't forget him, but that didn't mean she had to use her voice to keep his memory alive. Not when it was her voice he'd ignored over and over again, laughing when she begged him, mocking her when she cried.

"Ms. McCall—"

"Oscar Velasquez." She pressed a hand over her mouth, wiping her lips, inadvertently scrubbing them.

"Son of a…" Lydia whistled, falling back in the chair like she'd been shoved. Propping an elbow on the arm of the chair and dropping her chin into her upturned palm, she shook her head. "We had our sights set on the bastard, figured he was behind it. Then both of you disappeared. No matter what we did or where we looked, we couldn't pick up either of your scents."

"He's dead. Elian killed him."

"Killed— Elian?" Lydia shot forward, her eyes widened and mouth hanging open. She looked stunned, completely engrossed. Like she was watching a masterfully pieced together thriller unfold and its twists and turns were too much for her mind. "Sandoval killed Velasquez? You were in Malibu with both of them?"

Dee Dee shook her head, the gesture turning into an unsure shrug. "I don't know if Elian was there the whole time, or if he wasn't, when he did get there. I didn't see him until after…um, until…after…" Damn it_. _She just had to say it. She needed to think of herself as a narrator and she was telling a story—someone else's story. That way it wouldn't be real, and she wouldn't be the main character. "They shot Jordan Trask. I tried to run, but they caught me. I, I…I was taken to the main house, to a bedroom. And he, uh…Oscar…" She took in a breath, and then another. Another. "He raped me. It went on for hours."

Lydia's face paled. She didn't look shocked necessarily, Dee Dee decided, more sickened. Like an assumption she didn't want to be true had been proven to be just that, and now knowing the facts for sure, for all that they unmistakably were, would somehow haunt her. "So, the first time you laid eyes on Elian Sandoval was…after?" she asked, dragging out the final word distastefully.

Dee Dee nodded. "He came into the bedroom. He was with another man—the man who shot Trask. I think he was there the whole time. I'd seen him a few times."

"Another man?"

"He seemed close to both Elian and Oscar, like he knew them well. Uh. Tony. They called him Tony."

"And…then?" Lydia probed hesitantly, her eyelids fluttering, like she was watching a horror movie and was prepared to slam them closed at the first sign of blood and gore.

"Elian and Oscar started arguing. Some of it was about me. Elian told Oscar he was stupid for keeping me at the house as long as he had, and Tony kept telling Oscar that he needed to get rid of me like they had Trask, because the police and FBI were looking for me."

Lydia nodded firmly, believably, her eyes narrowing. "And we were looking," she assured. "I'm afraid we just didn't do a very good job of it."

Dee Dee smiled softly, wondering if the woman would interpret the weak gesture as forgiveness. She hadn't really thought about it over the years, whether or not she was holding onto a grudge. In the beginning, she'd put all of her hope in the LAPD, in her team—in Hunter. She'd waited for them to find her, expected them to and had faith that they would.

In the beginning.

But oddly, she couldn't remember anymore when the optimism that she'd clung to in the beginning turned into doubt, and then doubt finally became certainty.

"What happened next?" Lydia prodded.

Dee Dee cleared her throat, casting a wary glance at the tape recorder. "Only part of the argument was about me, about what Oscar needed to do with me. The rest was about their father—"

"Their father?" Lydia cut in quickly. "Whose father?"

Dee Dee scrubbed her forehead with her fingertips, her eyes closing briefly. "Velasquez—John Diego. He was Oscar and Elian's father."

"Hold the damned payphone," Lydia snapped, wide-eyed. "Velasquez and Sandoval—_brothers_?"

"Half," Dee Dee quickly corrected. "Same father, different mothers. John Diego and Elian's mother were never married."

"Well. Holy hell. How'd that get past us?"

"John Diego wanted it to," Dee Dee explained simply. "He brought Elian here from Colombia, but he never gave him his name. Elian said it was his father's way of protecting him."

"Kept the little prodigy hidden under the rug," Lydia grumbled, scraping the blunt end of her thumbnail across her chin. "So, after he off'd Oscar, did Elian take over the family business?"

"Most of it, I think," Dee Dee admitted. "But like I said, Elian doesn't talk to me about his business dealings or associates." She ran her tongue over her bottom lip, shrugging. Looking more hesitant than assured. "I've…overheard…things, but—"

"Overheard what things?" Lydia asked quickly. "Be specific, Ms. McCall. Tell me everything you do know."

"Elian has always been careful about what he says around me. I've assumed it's because of my background, or I don't know. Maybe deep down he's had a fear that this day would come. That he would lose his control over the business, just like he took it away from his brother."

"By killing him," Lydia concluded, nodding.

"Elian shot Oscar," Dee Dee answered. "It happened in the bedroom, at the house in Malibu. Oscar was going to kill me, he said he had to…" She lifted a hand, rubbing gently across the front of her throat. "I didn't…see…Elian pull the trigger. I was in the bathroom; the door was closed. But I heard the shot, and I could hear Tony and Elian talking. When I went back into the bedroom, Oscar was dead."

Lydia leaned back in the chair, a hand propped under her chin. "I'm going to take a wild guess here," she deadpanned. "Oscar Velasquez got his brains blown out—literally?"

Dee Dee nodded, a shiver rolling through her as the memory came back—seeing the blood, tasting it in the air, the panic she'd felt. It had been the beginning of her helplessness, and she prayed that by the time the tape recorder stopped, the helplessness finally would, also. "Other than that," she admitted, "it's just been…talk I've overheard or insinuations I've picked up on."

"About?"

"Women—girls. I've heard both Elian and Marcus talk about bringing them into the country, putting them to work. And Elian's threatened…with me." She hesitated, rubbing her palms up and down her thighs, repeating the action, pushing harder each pass. "Maybe it was just intimidation tactics, I don't know. But he's talked about places that he could send me, the, uh, the…things…that would happen to me there."

Lydia exhaled, a grunted, "Damn," hanging on the coattails of the heavy breath. Pulling off her glasses, she tossed them beside the recorder onto the table and scrubbed her pale cheeks with her palms. "Doing okay?" she asked, peeking over the tips of her fingers at Dee Dee. "Need a break, a drink of water? Shot of whiskey?"

Dee Dee laughed softly, turning down Lydia's offer with a shake of her head. "I just want to get this done."

"All right then." Lydia nodded once, sternly. "Let's leave Malibu and move onto Coral Gables. This is probably a stupid question, but I need you to confirm whether or not your marriage to Sandoval was consensual."

Dee Dee couldn't stop herself from laughing, or the tears from tightening her throat. "The marriage was Elian's idea. It was a couple of months after we got to Coral Gables. I, uh…I found out that I was pregnant, and Elian… His father never married his mother, and he said it would be different for his child. He said it was what we had to do because he knew what it felt like to grow up as a bastard." She shrugged a shoulder, sighing. "So. A man came to the house a few days later. Elian said he was a judge, he performed the ceremony."

"Do you know this judge's name?"

"No. But he seemed official, so did the ceremony. Marcus and Isabel were witnesses, and, uh, and afterwards…" She slumped down even further, exhausted. Physical exhaustion, though, had somehow made its way to the backburner; all she seemed able to feel was the emotional exhaustion. Having to admit, confess, tell, it was just as hard as she'd imagined it would be. Just as humiliating recounting the memories as when she'd been forced to survive each of them.

"Afterwards?" Lydia urged.

"It was the first time Elian took me out of the country. He called it a honeymoon. We went to Rio, spent a couple of weeks there. And when we got back, I don't know. He was…better, sort of. Maybe more relaxed—nicer? He was excited about the baby. He talked about it a lot, about becoming a father."

"A real live honeymoon," Lydia grumbled. "Hmm. Have to say, a trip to Rio with Sandoval makes a weekend in Niagara Falls with pretty much anybody else seem like heaven on earth in comparison. Don't you think?"

Dee Dee smiled fleetingly, sadly. "That pregnancy, the first one…I miscarried. It happened a few weeks after we got back to Coral Gables. And then…uh…" She closed her eyes, her brows creasing. "I guess it was around six months after that when I found out I was pregnant with Avi."

_"Give her to me, Elian. Please? I want to hold her."_

Dee Dee shook her head, shook away the echoes still lingering in her past. "She came early, was tiny." She smiled softly, but her smile quickly faded, tears replacing it. "She was born at the house, but the doctor was worried that she was too small. He thought she should be taken to the hospital to get checked. So, Elian and Isabel took her, they said they were her parents. Isabel stayed with her the three weeks she was there."

"That explains the birth certificate," Lydia responded, more to herself than Dee Dee. "We found a copy in Sandoval's home safe. On it, the mother's name—"

"Is Isabel Ramirez. Elian thought it was safer that way. If my name was listed, someone might recognize it. He thought it was too risky." She re-crossed her legs, pausing. Hesitating. "Isabel is good to her," she admitted with the hint of a shaky smile. "After Avi was born, Elian wanted Isabel to act as her nanny, to take care of her. And I, uh…" She shrugged. "Like I said, Isabel's good to her. Avi loves her."

"And your relationship with her?" Lydia asked.

Dee Dee half-shrugged, half-nodded, but didn't offer any more of an explanation. Some weaknesses were harder than others to admit. Some failures hurt too much to confess.

Lydia nodded, letting Dee Dee's answer remain ambiguous. "So. No other children?"

"The two pregnancies were it. There haven't been any others."

"So, let me ask the hard question," Lydia began, hesitant but making it clear that she would forge ahead, no matter Dee Dee's reaction. "It's been six years, Ms. McCall—six long years. In all that time, there was never an opportunity to escape, to get your daughter and you out of Sandoval's home? Or, I don't know. Make a phone call and tell someone where you were?"

Dee Dee met the agent's questions with laughter, low and abrasive. Mocking. "I haven't even seen a telephone in six years," she returned coolly. "Not unless it's in Elian's hand. The only times I've left the estate are when Elian's taken me out of the country with him, on trips. And then…trust me. If anyone's ever noticed me with him, they haven't bothered to see me."

Lydia leaned forward, her eyes narrowed, her stare intent. "Pardon my candor, Ms. McCall, but why are you even still alive? If Elian wasn't around when Oscar put his initial plan into play, why'd he keep you around afterwards? Why not kill you?"

Dee Dee shrugged, her demeanor suddenly eerily indifferent. "Because Elian doesn't like to be wasteful," she answered straightforwardly. "He could use me, he said. And he has."

Lydia settled back in the chair, a minute of silence dragging into two, and then three. "Okay. Tell me what happened the night Sandoval's estate was raided. Who tipped him off?"

Dee Dee took in a breath, answering first with a shake of her head. "I don't know."

"What about Thomas Landry?" Lydia pushed. "Who made him? Who shot him?"

Dee Dee's gaze dropped. _Thomas Landry_. She saw his face again, remembered the details Lydia had told her about the life he'd lost. But most intently, she remembered how kind his eyes had been. "He was the reason we had to leave. I don't know who made him, or how. I didn't know who he was until that night…that he was…that he… But a few days before, he'd come into my bedroom, asked me questions, and, uh. And took pictures of me."

"Pictures he faxed to Riley Porter," Lydia said, a brow arched tautly. "Did you know that's what he planned to do with them?"

Dee Dee shook her head. "I didn't know for sure what he planned to do. But Marcus—Marcus Rivera? He let Thomas into the room, and after he left, Marcus told me not to tell anyone that he'd been there. But then when…" She took in a deep breath, scrunching her eyes closed. Remembering, even though she wished that she could forget instead. "It was after dinner, and we were in the dining room. Uh. Elian and me…Marcus, and there were two other men. First names are Rueben and Davie, but I don't know their last names."

"We have a Rueben Sanchez in custody," Lydia confirmed. "He's been pretty tight-lipped so far. A hound that's loyal to his master, if you know what I mean."

Dee Dee dropped her head forward, her shoulders drooping. She stared down at her fingers twisted in her lap, Elian's voice once again filling the space around her. It was just a whisper, low, calculated, demanding.

_"Show me the respect I deserve. Kill him. Do it. Shoot him."_

"Thomas…" she began shakily, peeking at Lydia with upturned eyes. "Elian…gave me the gun. He told me to shoot Thomas. He said I had to do it to prove that I respected him."

Lydia groaned softly, wincing. "Please tell me the next word in this particularly distasteful Grimm's Fairytale is 'but.'"

Dee Dee exhaled a shallow breath, her stare once again lowered. "I didn't want to do it…shoot him. I couldn't do it." She closed her eyes, Lydia's whispered, "Thank, God," not potent enough to make a dent in her guilt. "Elian was already angry, and then when I…when I wouldn't…he, uh. It just made him angrier, so he…he…shot…" Shifting in the chair, she searched for a comfortable position. But she couldn't find one, and she wondered if she would ever feel even a semblance of comfort again? With Elian on her heels for the rest of her life, breathing down her neck, his eyes on her even when they weren't his. Although those things would be contingent on him deciding that he would let her continue living—another day, a week, maybe six more years trapped under his thumb. They would keep playing their game of cat and mouse, even though she'd long ago lost her desire to play at all.

"Ms. McCall?" Lydia cleared her throat, pulling Dee Dee out of her thoughts. "Am I correct when I say that Elian Sandoval murdered Thomas Landry?"

Dee Dee hesitated, swallowing her better judgment and answering with a weak, "Yes. It was Elian."

"Yes, okay. So, after Thomas was shot—"

"Timothy came into the dining room."

"Timothy Kirkpatrick," Lydia said through a slow nod. "Right. Sorry to say I've had the displeasure of meeting him. Have to say, a rock has a better personality."

Dee Dee didn't react to Lydia's dry attempt at humor, although knowing that Timothy had been one of the ones arrested gave her a certain amount of satisfaction—even if it was born from caution. He'd always been too happy—too damned egotistical—when it came to shoving the power Elian bestowed on him in her face. He liked to bully, and he had always particularly enjoyed bullying her. "He came into the room," she continued. "He said there'd been a phone call, that we needed to leave. He said the FBI was on the way to the house."

"Timothy got a call?" Lydia asked, suspicion darkening her eyes.

She nodded. "That was when Elian sent me upstairs, to my room. He had Marcus go with me."

"This call Kirkpatrick got, did he say who it was from?"

Dee Dee shook her head, glancing up. "A little while after Marcus and I went upstairs, Elian came up. He told Marcus to get Isabel and Avi, he said for Marcus to follow the plan. And then he told me to stay in my room, to stay quiet, no matter what. He said if I said anything, I'd never see Avi again." Dee Dee's eyes began to blur, and she sniffed, fighting her tears. "One thing Elian isn't, Ms. Ortiz, is a liar. He has to know by now that I've been cooperating with you, and that means wherever Marcus and Isabel have taken Avi, we'll never find her. Elian's already made sure of it."

Lydia leaned forward, reaching halfway across the coffee table and switching off the tape recorder. She smiled, nodding encouragingly, as Dee Dee's stare met hers. "Why don't you let me worry about that?" she said, nodding again, sturdier. "Okay? Because if there's one thing I definitely enjoy, it's putting a spin on some jackass's unethical plan." Her smile broadened as Dee Dee's expression crinkled, questioning her. "Not only have you talked, and eloquently, in my opinion, but you've given us one hell of a jumpstart on getting that needle into Sandoval's arm. The bastard is going down thanks to you, and one thing I've learned during my time in this job is that the biggest bastards never go down alone. They always take company with them. So, we will find your little girl—bet on it. Because the more Sandoval talks, the more his hounds will start barking to save their own hides." She tapped her knuckles twice on the tabletop, scooting to the edge of the chair. "You know, sometimes revenge can be one slow son of a bitch, but once it finally gets where it needs to be, it really is a sweet arrival. And my gut is telling me, before too much longer, you're going be agreeing with me."

**xxx**

"You're looking a little weak in the knees, Hunter. Guess that'll learn you to eavesdrop when you're told not to."

Hunter met Lydia Ortiz's tight smile with a grimace, backing up to the closed front door. Hooking his arms over his chest, he dropped his chin downward, his stare quickly following suit. A crack ran the length of the porch, a deep, jagged crevice that marred the otherwise smooth concrete. He tracked it upwards to where it butted up to the bottom of the door and then downward to where it came to a stop at the blunt edge of the platform, over and over again, the echo of Dee Dee's voice ringing in his ears throughout each pass.

_"He raped me. It went on for hours."_

Christ. He really was a selfish son of a bitch. Day after day, month after month, for six years he'd trudged through his daily routine feeling sorry for himself. Brooding about what _he_ had lost, concentrating on how much _he_ hurt, angry with both God and the world because _he_ was suffering.

_Suffering_. He didn't even know the meaning of the world. He'd missed her and so he thought that gave him the right to use it, but each time it had been out of context. He hadn't suffered. Not through one single day, one month, one of the six years that she had been gone.

What he'd done was given up.

"That old partner of yours," Lydia said, pulling Hunter out of his newest bout of brooding. "She's a hell of a woman."

Hunter nodded once, in agreement. Dee Dee was a hell of a woman, and he was just one more piece of slime who'd taken advantage of her. Not as callously as the sons of bitches Velasquez and Sandoval had, but just as hurtfully. By using her—who she was in his life, the relationship they shared, the belief that he knew her better than anyone else ever could. Because of her, he'd felt entitled to keep feeling sorry for himself, to continue to make his own hurt feelings his priority instead of Dee Dee. Like she should have been all along.

"You know, I've got this itching in my gut that's telling me something isn't adding up here," Lydia continued, backing up to the porch railing.

"Isn't adding up?" Hunter asked quickly, with impatience. "You don't believe Dee Dee?"

"Believe her?" Lydia returned. "Ms. McCall _is_ my itch."

Hunter's brows flattened, his frown deepening. "You want to explain what that means?"

Lydia leaned her full weight into the iron railing, hugging her briefcase against her chest. "How'd this case get so screwed up in the beginning? I mean, think about it. This is the damned Federal Bureau of Investigation, not a crackerjack police force from Mayberry, R.F.D. So, how was it that the DNA found in that bedroom in Malibu six years ago was attributed only to Ms. McCall? We're talking bodily fluids, blood and brain matter, and not just a couple of specks here and there." She sighed, balancing the briefcase beside her on the railing. "Even if we assume Oscar Velasquez used condoms when he assaulted her, what about the rest of it? The woman obviously doesn't have a hole in her head, so how was it that some Federal tech came to the conclusion that it was her brain splattered all over that room?"

"You suggesting someone tampered with the evidence?" Hunter growled lowly.

"I'm saying someone made a hell of a mistake, and I'd like to know how it happened. The results of that evidence are what brought the case to a close. Maybe Oscar Velasquez was still being looked for, but as far as Ms. McCall was concerned the collective mindset changed from search and rescue to hoping like hell we caught a break and recovered a body. No one thought she was still alive. No one was encouraged to think there was even a remote possibility that she could be."

Hunter pushed off the door, his arms stiffening at his sides. "What're you thinking?"

Lydia shrugged a shoulder. "I'm thinking… Someone didn't want that woman found six years ago. The reason why is what's sticking in my craw."

"Are you thinking someone on the inside?"

Lydia grabbed her briefcase off the banister, tucking it under an arm. "We got Thomas Landry into Sandoval's inner circle with little to no problem. So, what makes the FBI so special to think Sandoval and his half-brother couldn't do the same thing? I mean, come on. Think about it." She pushed her glasses further up her nose, her eyes narrowing behind the lenses. "How is it that until a couple of hours ago no one knew there was any type of connection between John Diego and Oscar Velasquez and Elian Sandoval? We aren't talking about petty thieves here. Daddy spent the better part of his adult life on the FBI's Ten Most Wanted List, and Oscar, well. He had his own list of depraved achievements. And I still have to question the findings of the DNA evidence. That's a rookie mistake, don't you think, to conclusively match DNA to someone it doesn't belong to?"

"But why set up Dee Dee?"

"Maybe she wasn't set up," Lydia responded simply. "Maybe it truly was a case of being at the wrong place at the wrong time. Just suppose, back in 1990, the Velasquez's had already made Jordan Trask before the raid went down in California. They planned all along to take him out, and then Ms. McCall got in the way. There wasn't any other choice but to take her along with Trask."

Hunter bit down on his lower lip, chewing. "Maybe," he finally grunted. "But why not let Oscar kill her? Why risk keeping her alive?"

"Because apparently, Elian Sandoval didn't learn from Daddy or Brother's mistakes. He believes he's above the law, a hell of a lot smarter than it, too. And considering he's obviously had someone covering his tracks for him, why wouldn't he think that?"

"The most likely someone seems to be our third prick," Hunter said, receiving a sharp nod in agreement from Lydia. "He saw Dee Dee in Malibu and knew Sandoval had her this whole time. Maybe he's who called Sandoval to tell him about the raid?"

"Whoever he is, Ms. McCall can put him in the house in Malibu six years ago, and that's the last place he wants anyone to know he was. Which means from the start, he's had a damn good reason for needing her to disappear."

"Because the son of a bitch is FBI…" Hunter grunted.

"Gotta be," Lydia agreed. "So, now what we have to figure out is, which son of a bitch is he?"


	16. Chapter 16

**SIXTEEN**

The night was quiet, the world outside seeming to have settled into sleep. Inside the tiny, pink house, the lights were off, the shades drawn. Dee Dee huddled beneath an afghan, nestled into the corner of the sofa, having finally found at least guarded relaxation in what was becoming Hunter's and her routine: sitting together in the dark, following the nighttime into morning.

"You should try to get some rest," Hunter said from his perch on the opposite end of the sofa. "You look tired."

She shook her head and stifled a yawn, before handing him a soft smile. "Tell me about your friend, the cop. What's her name?"

He propped an arm on the arm of the sofa, his Glock lain out across his lap. "Mallory," he offered, albeit sounding somewhat strangled.

"Trask?"

"Jordan Trask was her husband. She came to Parker Center a couple years…after."

Dee Dee pulled in a strong breath, nodding. Understanding the undefined timeline. "Charlie said she's a good cop."

"She is."

Drawing her knees up to her chest, she left her toes to dangle over the edge of the sofa cushion. "She's a good cop," she repeated, matter of fact. "Is that all she is?"

Hunter hesitated, not offering her a glance even though he could feel her stare burning into him. He shrugged a shoulder, his jaw clenching.

"She's more," Dee Dee answered for him, the lone beam of moonlight that had snuck into the room falling across and highlighting her soft smile. "So? How much more is she?"

"I don't know," he grumbled. "I, uh…we're…it's…" He shrugged again, making it clear he would rather talk about anything other than Dee Dee's chosen topic of conversation. "We helped each other out after everything. And I guess, at some point, it just got bigger than either of us planned. We didn't mean for anything—"

"You don't have to explain. I just asked who she is." She tightened the blanket around her shoulders, a shiver sweeping through her.

He nodded. Not offering any more of the explanation that she claimed not to need.

"This must be hard on her. You being gone, being here."

"We've talked."

"You've talked," she said, chuckling faintly. "Yeah, well. I doubt that's made her feel any better about you being here with me. I saw her, you know, at the Federal Building. I saw how she looked at me, how she looked at you. And no matter what the situation is, she'd have to be a saint not to feel threatened by all this."

"Mallory's not like that. She's—"

"A woman." Her brows rose, and she shot a perceptive glance at him. "Trust me, she doesn't understand." Before, when they'd both been someone different, she would have pushed harder for an explanation as to exactly who the woman was, and even more, who Hunter wanted her to become. She would have kept on him until he told her what she wanted to hear, and she would have wanted to hear everything. "So? You going to marry her?"

"I, uh. I don't know."

"Neither of you know, or just you don't?"

He shot a sideways glance at her, frowning. "Look it. Mallory understands what I'm doing, she knows it needs to be done."

She sank back, her back and shoulders rounding as she hooked her arms around her legs. "Don't let her get away," she said. "Go back to her before it's too late. Just get in the car and head back to LA, and take Mallory with you." She watched him, the way his eyes narrowed and jaw drummed. He'd already dismissed her idea, she could tell. It was Hunter, after all, remembering reminded her, with his one-track mind and unhealthy amount of guilt. "Sooner or later you're going to have to let me leave, you know? It's the only way."

"Let's talk about something else, huh?" he grumbled. "About…you."

She shot down his suggestion with a hard shake of her head. "I spent the whole afternoon talking about myself. I don't…want… There's nothing else to say. At least nothing else that I want to say."

"Okay. Then tell me about your daughter," he persisted, his request bringing the hint of a smile back out of her. "What's she like?"

Dee Dee took in a breath, deep and filling. "Avi," she said, her voice light, deceptively carefree. "She's…I don't know. Smart. Not even five-years-old yet and she can already read. That's what she likes to do most of the time—read. And swim, she loves to swim."

Hunter's smile emerged effortlessly, with longing, and he nodded, encouraging her to go on.

"She's stubborn, that's what everyone says." She laughed softly, with Hunter. "I wish I could spend more time with her. She's at that age where she's starting to ask a lot of questions, you know, to notice things." She bit down on her bottom lip, nibbling for a contemplative moment. "She's getting angry, I think. Already. It scares me."

Hunter reached toward her, laying his hand between them in the center of the unoccupied cushion that separated them. "That's all going to change, Dee Dee. They're going to find Avi, get her back to you. Then that bastard won't have any say in what you do. You can be the kind of mother you want to be."

She nodded weakly, unconvinced. "I didn't want her," she confessed, tears sparkling in her eyes, glistening in the diffused moonlight. "I didn't want her inside of me. At first, I hoped I would miscarry again, like the first time. But then, I don't know." She dragged a hand through the side of her hair, scattering the long strands across her shoulder. "One day, I felt her move, and after that, I stopped thinking about her as being a part of anyone other than me. In my mind, she's always been just mine, you know?"

"She is only yours. Sandoval doesn't deserve to be anyone's father."

"He thinks he does," she remarked simply, truthfully. "And if I do get Avi back, I'm going to have to figure out how to explain everything to her."

"You'll figure it out," he said assuredly. "With help, you'll figure it all out."

She bowed her head, trying to hide her tears. But the muted light exposed them, setting them aglow as they trickled down her cheeks. "I haven't been a part of the world for over six years, and I've never been a real part of my daughter's life. And it makes me think, you know, someone like me, someone…" She sniffled, dragging a bunched section of the afghan across one cheek. "I know Isabel loves Avi, and Avi loves her. They've always spent so much time together, the…most…time together. So, maybe it's unfair of me to want her back. I mean, I should think about what's best for Avi—"

"You're what's best for her," Hunter interrupted sternly, belief glistening as thickly in his eyes as tears were in Dee Dee's. "_You're_ her mother. She's still young. All of this…Sandoval's crap…she won't remember it. You have a lot of time left to make memories with her, Dee Dee. Good memories that she'll always remember."

She shook her head. Wanting to believe him but unable to. "She doesn't trust me like she trusts Isabel."

He inched his outstretched hand closer to her, just by a fraction, still careful not to touch. "You know that she likes to read, and that she's stubborn." He forced a smile, albeit a shaky one. "Seems to me, that makes her a lot like you. And if she's like you, that means once someone proves to her that they can be trusted, she'll give them every bit of trust she has." He hiked a leg up onto the sofa, sliding around to face her. "Maybe it'll take some work and it might not always be easy, but the things that mean the most are worth the hard work to get, don't you think?"

"Is this a pep talk?" she asked, chuckling softly, tearfully.

"If that's what you need it to be."

She sighed through a roll of her eyes, unburying her hands from beneath the thick blanket. Scrubbing them over her face, she dried her useless tears. Why she ever cried anymore, she didn't know. There'd been a time when she'd stopped doing it altogether. After all, what purpose did tears serve, other than to remind her how ineffective they were to stop a situation from turning into the unthinkable?

The most they ever did was empower Elian.

She scooted around to face Hunter, settling her back against the arm of the sofa. He'd been quieter than normal since Lydia Ortiz's visit, his mood darker and anger more palpable. And even though she wished she didn't, she knew why. She understood why. "Today," she began tentatively, "when, uh…when Lydia was here. You listened to our conversation, didn't you?"

He hesitated, sucking the corner of his bottom lip into his mouth. Slowly, guiltily, he answered with a nod.

"You shouldn't have done that," she responded, a tinge of coolness to her voice. "I didn't want you to know."

"I'll kill him, Dee Dee," he said softly, his tone eerily calm. Convicted. "I could do it, and I swear to God, I wouldn't lose a single night's sleep over it."

"Killing him won't change anything."

"It might."

"As long as I'm still alive it won't." She shrugged, having already accepted her fate and the memories that went hand-in-hand with it. "For six years, he's raped me. Sometimes, he hits me, and he makes me do things that I don't want to do." She shrugged again, more markedly, in response to his pained expression. "And then…other times…other times things aren't so horrible." She dropped her gaze, digging her fingers through the loose yarn of the afghan. "He, uh. He likes to play Scrabble. So, in the evenings after dinner, we play. Either that, or we watch movies. He likes the classics, the black and whites like I do. Humphrey Bogart is his favorite actor."

"Don't talk about him that way," Hunter commanded. "Like he's normal."

"He isn't normal," she agreed. "But he isn't always a monster, either. With Avi, he's…gentle. Kind. He laughs at her silly jokes and sings songs with her. He's proud of her, and I know he loves her."

"And that redeems him how?" Hunter snapped, misunderstanding fraying his voice.

"It doesn't," she answered, matter of fact. "But for me, I guess, focusing on his good qualities has always made surviving easier to do."

Hunter sniffed hard, tears springing to life in his eyes. "How did you survive?"

Her smile reemerged as softly as before, composed of certainty. But it only existed for a second, before once again disappearing. "I remember back when I was the one interviewing victims. They would tell me that while they were being attacked, they would shut down their minds. Leave their bodies, you know, go somewhere else, somewhere safe." She nodded, knowing he understood, that he had heard the same testimonials far more times than she had. "I never understood how that was possible. I mean, how could you shut out the fact that someone was hurting you—violating you? But then…it didn't take long for me to realize it isn't that hard to do at all." She lifted her shoulders, the blanket bunching and wrinkling around them. "He raped me, but only in the beginning. Because after a while, it wasn't me anymore, it was just a shell. I didn't let myself stay there, and that meant he couldn't hurt me."

"He did hurt you," Hunter whispered, dragging the pads of his thumbs beneath his eyes.

She had been hurt, Dee Dee only silently agreed. But for some reason, oddly, the devastation that marked her past didn't feel quite as suffocating as it used to. Maybe it was because she'd finally gotten it out in the open, or maybe it was just acceptance, she didn't know which. She only knew that she felt stronger than she had in a long time. Not invincible, but not completely powerless anymore, either. "Do you really think the FBI will settle for a taped statement?" she asked, nervousness making a faint emergence in her voice. "I mean, what if it isn't enough for them? What if they still want to arrest me?"

"No one's going to arrest you," he returned quickly, adamantly.

"If it's what they want to do, neither Lydia Ortiz nor you can stop them. As it is, you're going to end up behind bars, too."

"If they try it, we'll get you a lawyer. We'll find the best."

She nodded. Not in agreement and far from being convinced, but to avoid an argument. "I just want to see Avi," she admitted. "Just one more time, if that's all I'm going to get. I need to try and make her understand…to tell her—"

"You're going to have the rest of your lives to tell her everything you want to," Hunter said, finally reaching for her, touching her. She flinched, only faintly, but enough that Hunter noticed. He pulled his hand back, resting it between them again.

"She's a good girl," she said. For some reason, she didn't want him to doubt that, to doubt that—despite her daughter's start in life, her origin—Avi did possess worth. "She likes to make people laugh." Her smile emerged genuinely. "But she's a thinker, too. She can be cautious"

"Like you," Hunter said through a nod.

"Maybe. I guess."

"You have every right to be proud of her, Dee Dee."

"I am." And she was, unequivocally. As hard as she knew it might be for someone else to understand, and as hard as it had been for her to accept in the beginning, she was thankful for her daughter. "Rick." Saying his name still felt odd. It felt new, almost dangerous. "Even in prison, Elian won't stop. He won't give up. My freedom is something both Oscar and he felt justified taking, and it's something he's always made clear would never be given back to me."

"He's lost. He can't take from you anymore."

"He'll try. He'll never stop trying," she countered simply, with belief. "And that's why I want you to go home. Go back to LA, back to Mallory and your life." She watched him; the way his eyes narrowed, disagreement darkening them, and his expression hardened, and she knew he'd dismissed her idea again. "Don't make me beg you, please. Just go. Because if you'll leave, then I can, too."

He grunted weakly, still with disagreement, and shook his head.

"Please, do this," she pushed. "Please. If something happened to you…if Elian did something…" She sighed, dropping her head forward. Salvation was what she'd once prayed for, but that was before she knew how costly Elian would make it. The price was other lives, or so she'd been made to believe. But she knew him well enough to know that even though he'd lied to her once, he wouldn't do it a second time. People would die, and it would be her fault, because of her selfishness. "He won't give up."

"Then I will kill him."

"And then one of his men will kill you. That's how it works with Elian—an eye for an eye, a life for a life. And I don't…I couldn't survive that again."

"And what about what's happened to you?" he asked quickly, pointedly. "The bastard has already put you through hell, and I'm not going let him keep doing it. I'm not going let you just disappear again. Not alone, at least."

"Oh, God," she groaned, her hands fisting beneath the blanket. "There's nothing for you to prove. So, just go back to your life, all right, and let me find one of my own."

"What kind of life are you going to have if you're on the run, always hiding? What kind of life will that be for Avi?"

"It'll be a better one than the one we just left," she answered, matter of fact. "Even a little bit of freedom is better than none at all. And I'll gladly trade another twenty years locked inside that damned bedroom for even just a few days on my own."

"No." He said it determinedly, with his mind made up. "You don't get it. When you were gone, at first… We couldn't, everywhere we looked was just another dead end. And then there was the DNA, and everyone told me—_they_ believed—you were dead. They said it was over." He shook his head, blinked away his tears. "But I couldn't believe it. For whatever reason, I never believed it. I just couldn't find anything to help me convince everyone else that they shouldn't believe it, either. And now that…now that we…know…" He shook his head again, stronger, still with determination. "You can't disappear again."

"What happened, happened," she returned sternly. "We can't change it now."

"But we can stop him this time. We can—"

"Please," she pleaded, leaning forward, lessening the distance that separated them. "I know him, all right, you don't. And I know that he's spent his time in jail deciding how he's going to get back at me. Whether it's finally killing me, or…or something worse. Whatever it is, he'll make sure it happens. That's who he is. He doesn't know how to lose."

"Yeah? Well, I have lost before, and so have you. And personally, I don't like the way it feels." He tightened his hand around the Glock, his knuckles whitening. "So, Elian Sandoval and his over-inflated ego can be damned. Because I'm going to make damn sure he never makes either one of us ever feel that way again."

**xxx**

She was on edge.

He could see it in her eyes, in the tension that hardened her face. At night she barely slept; he knew because he never slept at all. And during the days she spent the majority of her time roaming aimlessly from room to room. Straightening blankets on beds, fluffing sofa pillows, rearranging knick-knacks in the living room, even emptying kitchen cabinets just to refill them with the same items and in the same way they'd been before she dug into them.

And in between pointless tasks, she would ask if he'd talked to anyone.

Lydia Ortiz. Riley Porter. Mallory Trask.

The source didn't seem to matter to her, only the information they had to relay.

_Had they found her daughter?_

For the most part, he tried to stay out of her way. He'd learned early on that conversation would only happen if it was what she wanted. She couldn't be prodded or tricked into talking, and so he had stopped trying. When she chose a particular moment to open up, he gave her his complete attention, and when silence and passing glances were the most she felt up to offering, he followed her lead and made sure to keep the amount of distance that felt safe to her between them.

"What're you fixing?"

Hunter dropped a hand full of noodles into a pot of boiling water, throwing a tense smile over his shoulder as Dee Dee walked into the kitchen. "Spaghetti."

She stopped on the opposite side of the island, surveying the place settings he'd put out. Lifting a green, handled cup, she turned it over in her hand. "Plastic," she said, a tiny laugh in her voice. "Elian has china imported from Italy. It's the only thing he'll use. He says anything else is unrefined." She placed the cup back on the countertop, flipping her right hand palm-up and exposing the jagged scar that marked her skin. "That's how I ended up with this. Broke one of his plates, tried to, uh. To…" She shrugged, dropping her arm to her side and sliding her palm across the side of her thigh.

Hunter only grimaced in response to her partial confession, before turning back to the stove.

"Have you talked to anyone today?" she asked, after a few minutes of silence had distanced them from her dark admission. "I was just, um. You know. Just wondering if there was any news—"

"Haven't talked to anyone," Hunter confirmed, keeping his back to her. "But Avi is still the top priority. Try not to worry, McCall. They're gonna find her."

She took in a breath, holding onto it for a dragging minute, before releasing it in one, loud huff. "No one's called me that in a long time—McCall. Elian only calls me Dee Dee."

"Yeah, well. Elian isn't here."

He felt her stare against his back, hard, edgy still. But he didn't turn around, he wouldn't let her push him into either a fight or compliance. After two late night phone conversations where Lydia Ortiz relayed what she hoped was useful information from their in-house shrink, he was on high alert for the expected symptoms of psychological trauma, with anger and aggression being the most prevalent, Ortiz had warned. _"If you can help it, Hunter, don't do or say anything that will make her feel threatened, like you're angry with her or challenging her. If you do, more than likely she'll come out swinging. Right now, for the first time in a long time, the shrink says she's probably feeling brave enough to fight back—she feels safe enough to do it. And more than likely fighting is exactly what she wants to do. Maybe even what she needs to do."_

"This'll be ready in a minute," he said, forcing the lightheartedness he couldn't seem to feel into his voice. "It's nothing fancy, just pasta and tomato sauce. But it'll be edible, at least."

"Whatever's fine. I'm not that hungry, anyway." Sliding a barstool away from the island, she propped a hip on the circular seat, and then glanced at the clock over the sink. "Elian likes to eat dinner at six o'clock," she said, her stare once again targeting Hunter's rigid back. "It's almost six thirty."

Hunter bunched his shoulders, biting into his bottom lip to stop himself from exploding. _Elian this, Elian that_… Screw Elian's damned rules. He was sick of hearing them recited over and over and having them pushed in his face like he was doing something wrong because he refused to do anything the son of a bitch's way.

"Breakfast is at seven," she continued, intention obvious in her voice. "Lunch is at—"

"Dee Dee. Stop." He pressed his eyes closed, silently berating himself for breaking rule number one—don't goad her. Hesitantly, he glanced back, finding her looking angry. Not merely on edge any more, but pushed over it. "We don't have a schedule. It's six thirty, so what? Doesn't mean dinner's ruined."

She took in a breath, her nostrils flaring before she scrunched her nose, like she'd picked up the stench of something repulsive. "You don't have a schedule," she responded curtly. "But I still do. It's been six years of eating three times a day, at the same times every day." The anger drained from her face, impertinence replacing it. "I'm sorry if I can't break Elian's habits fast enough for your approval."

He shook his head, dutifully shouldering her anger. _"If she feels angry, Hunter, let her be angry,"_ he heard Ortiz lecture. _"It's what she needs most right now—the opportunity to express her feelings without the fear of reprisal."_ He took in a breath, silently conceding to both Ortiz's advice and Dee Dee's precarious mood. "Come on, McCall. This is ready, so why don't we just—"

"Don't call me that," she growled, her hands fisting on top of the Formica countertop. "That isn't who I am anymore. I'm not _McCall_."

He took in a sharp breath, spinning around. _Fuck taking Sandoval's bullshit from her_. If she wanted to fight, he was more than willing to offer himself up as her sparring partner. "You're wrong. You're still her."

Her eyes darkened a shade, fury at the root of their change. "So, what? This is the way it's going to be? You're going to pretend none of it happened, is that it? Because like it or not, I can't do that. This _is_ who I am now. It's who he turned me into."

"It's not who you are."

"Yes, it is. So, do us both a favor and stop trying so damned hard to find your old McCall. Stop kidding yourself into believing she's come back, that eventually she _will_ come back. Because she won't, Elian made sure of that."

His shoulders drooped, her truthfulness weighting them. "Then I'll take whoever came in her place."

She laughed harshly, coldly. "You don't even know who took her place."

Without giving his rationality the chance to override his impulses, he charged toward the island. He slammed the sauce-stained spoon down on the countertop, the plastic stem splintering and snapping in half from the force. With the crack of plastic, Dee Dee hopped off the barstool, her hands shooting up in front of her and eyes widening, expectance instantly filling them. _Oh, Christ_. What had he done? In front of him, with her anger having done a one-eighty toward fear, he finally saw exactly whom she wanted him to see. Not the Dee Dee he needed her to be, but the beaten-down caricature Elian Sandoval had callously created.

"Dee Dee, I…I didn't…I would…never…" Like Dee Dee had done seconds before, he clenched his hands on top of the island, turning them into white-knuckle fists. "I'm sorry."

She dropped her hands slowly, shaking her head and letting his apology hang between them for a second longer before charging into the living room. As he slid out from behind the island, chasing after her, her pace quickened. "Leave me alone!" she hissed, turning in mid-step and bringing Hunter to a staggering stop. "What do you want? What in the hell do you want from me? For God's sake, who do you want me to be?"

"You," he answered weakly, honestly. "I, just. Just you."

"You don't even know who I am! And trust me, you don't want to know! I can guarantee you don't want anything to do with me! I'm not your old _McCall!_ She's gone, damn it! Can you understand that? She's _gone_—dead and buried just like everyone thought she was!"

"Dee Dee, come on," he stammered, motioning toward the kitchen with a shaky wave of his hand. "Let's just…let's sit down, okay? We'll eat some dinner, and we'll talk—"

"Don't tell me what to do!" she snapped, eyes blazing. "When I'm hungry, I'll eat! I'm sick and tired of being told what to do and when to do it!"

"I know."

"No!" she screamed. "You don't know!" She aimed a shaky finger at his face. "Stop trying to pretend you understand, because you have no idea what my life is like! Your life went on as normal, but mine is exactly what that son of bitch decided it would become!"

"Normal?" He couldn't stop his laughter, the harsh resonance revealing as much astonishment as anger. "You think even one day has been normal since you left?"

"I didn't leave! When you leave, it's by your own choice! It's not because you're drugged and flown across the country! What happened to me, that wasn't _just_ leaving!"

She barreled up to him, making it clear he wasn't going to be able to escape. And he deserved that, he decided. To be trapped like she had been, without options, with his only choice being hers. So, he stayed put, the target for her anger like she needed him to be.

"You want me to be someone I don't even know how to be anymore!" she continued. "You act like it should be so easy to pretend like nothing happened! That nothing's changed! But for me, everything has changed! And I don't know how to pretend it's anything different than what it is right now!"

"I'm not asking you to be anyone different!" he disagreed truthfully. "I'm just— Damn it! I need you to talk to me! I need to know how to help you—"

"I don't want your help!" she shouted, her face flushing. "When I needed your help you weren't there!"

Her accusation crashed down on him, stealing his breath, making his head spin. Since getting her back, it was what he'd feared hearing from her most. It was how he feared she felt—that it was his fault, his mistake.

And it was unforgivable.

"You weren't there!" she bellowed, her voice echoing through the tiny house. "Every time that son of a bitch Velasquez yelled at me, or hit me, or _touched_ me, I told myself to hold on! Someone was coming—_you_ were coming! And when Elian filled me with his damned drugs, I told myself it would be okay, because you wouldn't give up! No one could make you give up! And if you weren't going to give up, neither could I!" She rushed up to him, her hands raised, balled into fists. "Damn you! Why did you give up?"

Hunter felt tears begin to bite at his eyes, ruthless and stinging. He shook his head, knowing the truth, hating it, and knowing that any excuse he gave her would be weak at best. "I…tried…" he whispered.

"No! _I_ tried! You went on with your life! And now out of guilt, you're trying to convince me that I still have a place here—in the world you're a part of! But I don't! Thanks to the fucking FBI, I don't belong anywhere anymore!"

"Of course you belong!"

"I belong with Elian! Admit it, damn you! Mrs. Elian Sandoval—_that's_ who I am!" Hunter's face tensed and jaw clenched, and she retaliated to his obvious disgust with a hard shake of her head. "You can't even stand to hear me say it!" she accused. "So, if you can't even accept that much of it, how in the hell do you think you'll ever be able to accept the rest of it? Because it's what I've had to accept! Unlike you, no one gave me a choice!"

Hunter's own anger ignited, starting as a burn deep in his gut and quickly strengthening, engulfing him like a back draft. She had been hurt, okay. He knew that; he was trying like hell to accept it. But God help him, he didn't know how to accept the hurt she seemed so intent on dishing out because of it. "You're the only one who's been hurt?" He grunted a laugh, with his kid gloves ripped off and discarded. "That's what you really think—you're the _only_ one? Jesus! How'd you forget who the rest of us are? How in the hell could you think that we just fell back into our old routines, like what'd happened didn't matter?"

"Don't you dare compare us! You want to feel sorry for yourself because you feel guilty? To hell with your guilt! Did your guilt get me out of Oscar Velasquez's bed? Did it ever get me out of Elian's?" She shoved a hand into his chest, pushing him back a step. "Your guilt never helped me before, and it sure as hell won't help me now! So, screw you, Hunter! _Screw you!_ Wallow in your guilt if it makes you feel better, I don't care! But don't you dare expect me to feel sorry for you because of it!"

"I don't want you to feel sorry for me!" Hunter bellowed through Dee Dee's second slap that landed in the center of his chest. "I just want to know what in the hell it is that you want!"

"I want it to be six years ago!" She shoved her hands against his chest, once, twice, growling both times contact was made. "I want you to come through that door like you were supposed to, and I want you to kill the son of a bitch for what he did!"

The irony at the root of her anger slapped at Hunter's frenzied mind, as Dee Dee continued slapping his chest. _Three, four, five, six_… The strikes came over and over, gaining strength, stinging, making him flinch with each one. Why couldn't she understand that everything she wanted was exactly what he wanted, too? To find her, save her, kill both Velasquez and Sandoval before either had the chance to kill her spirit. To end the nightmare before it ever had the chance to begin.

He winced as she continued to beat his chest, her open palm slaps turning into light punches that she delivered through tears and groans. But still, he didn't try to stop her. He remained her willing target, receiving each blow with the belief that he deserved it as much as she believed that he did. If the only way for her to empty herself of anger—of both Oscar Velasquez and Elian Sandoval—was to take it out on him, then he would let her.

Deservedly.

With the hope of finally being forgiven.

"You looked for me!" she shrieked, her words punctuated by the sharp echo of skin slapping against skin. "So, why in the hell didn't you find me? I tried to get away! I _tried_! So, why didn't you? It's what you were supposed to do!"

Her punches began to slow, hard sobs replacing them. She dropped her head forward, flattening her hands against his chest. "No matter what you want me to believe, your life went on," she continued wearily, through hiccups. "But mine stopped." She dropped her hands, turning away from him and heading toward the hallway. Coming to a stop in the center of the dome-shaped doorway, she slammed a fist into the wall. The old plaster rattled and shook, the whole house seeming to grumble under the weight of her blow. "Don't ever compare us," she warned lowly, with tears still weighting her voice. "Don't try to make me feel sorry for you."

"That isn't what I want. I don't want you to feel sorry for me."

"Then what do you want?"

"I…I just. I want…" He shook his head, not entirely sure any longer if he even knew the answer. "I guess I want to know you're still in there somewhere."

She glanced at him over her shoulder, before turning around. As their stares locked, he saw her anger fade. It was visible and palpable as it drained out of her, leaving understanding in its wake. Slowly, with each movement deliberate, she raised her hands to the collar of her blouse and twisted her fingers around the silky material. Yanking quickly, she pulled the flaps apart, sprinkling buttons across the tile floor. And even as surprise overtook Hunter's expression, her stare never wavered. She remained rigid in the doorway, the blouse hanging open, her upper torso exposed.

"…Dee Dee…"

The fading sunlight that sneaked in through the curtained windows trapped her in a soft glow. It highlighted her bronzed skin and dark hair, and the sight of her stole his breath just as fully as it sickened him. Because he finally understood. He knew what she expected him to want from her; it was what she'd been taught was the only thing anyone could want.

It wasn't a rekindled friendship or renewed closeness.

It was everything that Elian Sandoval had taken from her.

"Take it," she said, eerily calm. Emotionless. "It's what you want, right?" She slapped her hands against her chest, the contact reverberating. "It's what he wants, too. It's the only thing he's ever wanted from me. And when he wants it, I don't tell him no. Do you understand? I _never_ tell him no."

"Dee Dee. That's not, it's…" Hunter felt his knees begin to buckle, and he grabbed hold of the back of the sofa to steady himself. "It's not what I want. It isn't what I expect."

"Why not?" she asked. Not sounding hurt or surprised, only unconvinced.

"Because I…I…don't—"

"This is who I am!" she screamed, the sudden force of her voice sending a noticeable tremble through her. "Not McCall, not your old partner! _This!_ It's who I am now!"

"No! It isn't!"

"Yes, it is!" she returned, trembles having overtaken her. "It's who came back! Accept it! Do us both a favor, damn it, and stop pretending! Because it doesn't matter how hard you try to make me someone else, or the someone you want me to be, it won't work! In the end, this will still be all you have!"

**xxx**

She felt nervous.

On edge.

Like at any second the floor would drop out from beneath her. And once the support of solid ground was ripped out from under her, she would start falling again like Alice down the damned rabbit hole. Spiraling. Out of control. With no way to get back to where she'd started from.

Dee Dee slammed the drawer closed, the dresser rocking from the force. Five drawers and she'd dug through each at least five different times. Rifling through folded and stacked bed sheets, unfolding and then refolding pillowcases, flipping through the collection of _Time Magazine_ that filled the bottom drawer. Wasting time, spinning her wheels, waiting for the damned floor to drop so she could begin falling again.

She pulled open the top drawer just to slam it closed again, repeating the process two more times before spinning away from the tottering piece of furniture and facing down the bedroom. If she had to be locked up, she wished it were in her room. At least there she felt comfortable. With Elian's books to read, his favorite music to listen to, the clothes he picked out for her to wear, and his rules to dictate her time. There, she knew what to do with herself, because he told her what to do. It wasn't left up to her to decide or try to figure out.

Moving to the foot of the bed, she dropped down; the springs squeaking under her weight. She glanced down at her ripped blouse, wincing. Out of the ten buttons that lined the left-side flap, only the bottom two remained. Elian would be upset if he knew she'd purposely ripped it. Maybe she could find the buttons, she should at least try. And maybe somewhere in the house there was a needle and thread. She could sew the buttons back on, that way Elian wouldn't find out—

_Stop it. _

She slammed her eyes closed, pulling the flaps of the blouse together. Twisting and strangling the fabric in her fingers, pulling on it until it was stretched taut across her shoulders and back.

_She hated the son of a bitch_.

But what no one else seemed to want to understand was, there was a fine line between hate and need. And even if Elian had never particularly needed her, as much as she hated to admit it, she needed him.

Jesus. When had she become so weak, so damned incompetent? It was what Elian had always accused her of being, and what everyone else saw her as being.

_"It's been six years, Ms. McCall—six long years. In all that time, there was never an opportunity to escape, to get your daughter and you out of Sandoval's home? Or, I don't know. Make a phone call and tell someone where you were?"_

Lydia Ortiz's question taunted her, replaying accusingly in her mind. There had been doubt in her eyes when she'd asked it, Dee Dee remembered seeing it.

_It had been six years_.

There had to have been something she could've done—something more, something else, _something_. It was what everyone thought, so why hadn't she ever thought it, also? When exactly was it that fear became too big of an obstacle for her to get around? Did it happen when she was locked inside the bedroom in Malibu, or after she was locked behind the door in Coral Gables? Or was it when she saw the doctored photographs of a lifeless Hunter, when she was forced to envision her parents' deaths, or did it happen when she always tried to convince herself that it did—when a newborn Avi was taken away from her without any promise that she would ever be brought back?

Or maybe she'd been weak all along, and Elian had been the only one honest enough to prove it to her.

She wanted to go back. Back to Coral Gables, to rules and schedules and demands. At least there it was expected of her to be weak, it was accepted. It was who she was supposed to be—Elian's mouse, afraid of her own shadow, her own voice, her own opinions. In Coral Gables, her weakness was praised; it was rewarded. But away from there, it was questioned and misunderstood.

She released her hold on the blouse, letting the flaps fall open again. Spinning around, she grabbed the duffle bag that Lydia Ortiz had brought from the center of the bed and unzipped it, pulling out three t-shirts—a soft pink, bright yellow and a plain white one. Without making a conscious selection, she wriggled out of the blouse and slid the yellow shirt over her head. It fit snugger than she was used to, the material tight enough across her chest to garner disapproval from Elian.

So, she tugged at it, stretching and wrinkling it.

_"You may be a whore, Dee Dee, but there's no reason why you have to be an unrefined one. Make yourself presentable, at least attempt to fool the idiots that don't yet know what you are."_

She could fool anyone. After all, she regularly fooled the best by fooling Elian into believing that his touches didn't turn her stomach and just being near him didn't make her skin crawl.

Climbing off the bed, getting her legs under her, she smoothed the hem of the shirt around the waistband of her linen slacks. No matter what Hunter said, she couldn't be fooled. There was only one place where she belonged; it was the only place she wanted to be. Why, she didn't know, because she'd spent the past six years hating every second she'd been forced to stay there. But then, in that moment, she missed it. She knew who she was there, and there was an odd comfort in knowing that she didn't have to strive to be more, because no one would ever see her as being anything or anyone other than what Elian decided she was.

With a glance at the door, she turned around and made her way to the lone window in the room. Opening the curtains and flattening her palms against the sun-warmed glass, she pushed up. The pane didn't budge and she searched for a lock, running her hand over the top of the wooden sill, down both sides, beneath it. _Nails_. She felt them before seeing them. Seven drilled deep into the wood of the pane.

Trapping her inside, keeping the world out.

She heard the door creak open, but kept her back to it, greeting Hunter only with an accusatory, "If I'm not under arrest then you can't keep me here. If I want to leave, you have to let me."

"You can't."

She spun around, anger tightening her face. "I don't want to be here. It's too— Damn it. I can't breathe here. I want to—"

"Dee Dee—"

"No! You can't fix this! Do you get that? You can't fix _me_!"

He shook his head. Not seeming surprised by her anger any longer, not intimidated by it.

Her arms eased at her sides, her stare hardening. _She hated him_. He wasn't any different than Elian. He wanted to control her, too, to make her into something that she wasn't. No matter what he tried to make her believe, what she wanted didn't matter to him. All he cared about were his wants, his needs.

And she hated him, too.

"You can't leave," Hunter said, shuffling forward a step.

"Yes, I can." she hissed. "Trust me, if anyone knows how easy it is to disappear, I do."

"No, Dee Dee. Listen to me, will you? Charlie just got back from the store. He called Lydia while he was there." He shrugged a shoulder, seeming at a loss for words, or at least at a loss at how to put them into some type of order that would make sense. "An anonymous tip came in, so Lydia checked it out. She took a team with her, to, uh, to an airfield. It was in Alabama, right over the border. And they, uh…when they got there…" He breathed out hard, a smile beginning to tremble on his lips. "Dee Dee, they found Avi. She's safe, honey. She's with Lydia now."

**xxx**

11:16

It was hour three of watching the clock.

For most of it, they'd been at the kitchen table, with Dee Dee on one side of the structure and he on the opposite side.

With Dee Dee watching the hands of the clock inch forward, and he watching her.

"Why hasn't she called back? You said she was going to call, right? To the house this time?"

"She'll call," Hunter responded, sneaking a glance at the wall phone across the room. _Damn it, why wasn't Lydia calling?_ What did she think, that she could tell them Avi had been found and then just fall off the face of the earth? Like Dee Dee wouldn't be anxious to hear more, like she wouldn't need further reassurance that her daughter really was all right?

"Something's wrong," Dee Dee said, pulling her gaze away from the clock. "Were they taking her to the Federal Building? Is Elian still being held there? Because if he is—"

"No one's going to let him get near that kid."

"Someone else could get to her," she countered, wide-eyed. "What about Elian's attorneys? They could, I don't know. They could think of something—do something—that would get Avi put in protective custody. I mean, Isabel's name is on her birth certificate, right? So, what if people believe she really is Avi's mother? I'm not even there, Hunter. No one knows where I am, and if they can't find me—"

"Isabel Ramirez is going to be hit with kidnapping charges," Hunter interrupted. "Not to mention all the other charges she's facing because she helped Sandoval all these years. She's going to prison right alongside her uncle, count on it."

The realization seemed to send a chill through Dee Dee, to stun her. Stupidly, Hunter had thought that finding out her daughter was safe would ease her anxiety. Maybe make her open up again, or at the very least make her warm up to him. But it had had the opposite effect. Instead, seeming to make her nervousness worse, uncontrollable.

"I can't sit here any longer," she said, dropping her hands to her thighs, rubbing quickly up and down. "Can we go to the Federal Building—"

"We have to stay put," Hunter interrupted, with a hard shake of his head. "You and I show up there and it'll just make things worse. If Gideon Stanton found out we were there, he'd go on a rampage. Not even Ortiz would be able to stop him from sticking us both in cells."

"I'm not afraid of being locked up," she snapped. "I spent the last six years locked up. It's one thing I'm used to."

"Fine," he returned coolly. "Let the prick lock you up. Then what happens to Avi?"

Her eyes narrowed, her anger visible in them. "What's going to happen to her now? She has to be scared." She pushed back in the chair, scooting away from the table and hopping to her feet. Beginning to pace, she crossed back and forth in front of the island, her steps heavy, quick. "You don't understand what her life is like any more than you understand what mine's like. She's sheltered, okay? Elian keeps her sheltered. She doesn't go to daycare or preschool; she doesn't have play dates with friends. Her entire world is inside that damned estate. Isabel takes care of her and plays with her, and when I can, so do I. She doesn't know anyone else. She doesn't know how to trust anyone else."

"But you trust Lydia, don't you?"

Dee Dee came to an abrupt stop, turning to face him. The question was replaying in her mind, he could tell, just like he could tell she was struggling to determine an answer. Obviously, trust hadn't been a staple component of her past six years. Not trust in her or her placing it in anyone else. But somehow she had to accept that the past was just that—_only_ that. It was behind her, over and done with and, God willing, never to be revisited. And since she couldn't move backwards into it again, he had to find a way to convince her to start running forward, away from it.

"You can trust her," he continued, pleading with her more than assuring her. "I think she's gone above and beyond to prove that already. She's put her job, reputation, pension and freedom on the line for you. And no one asked her to do it; no one expected her to. She did it for only one reason—you. To help you get your life back."

She backed up to the island, leaning into it. Not arguing with him, but far from agreeing with him.

Hunter scooted sideways in the chair, turning toward her. She was leaving the door of belief ajar, just an inch or two, so he had to get his foot wedged in before she could slam it shut again. He had to keep pushing until she finally relented and let him in. Because if he didn't, neither one of them would ever pass through. They would continue to remain separated, on opposite sides.

"You're right, you know," he said, with a sturdy nod. "I don't know what the past six years have been like for you. I don't know everything that son of a bitch put you through, and I don't want to know. But what I do know is what the rest of us went through." He shook his head, acknowledging, but still disagreeing, with her past accusation. "I don't want you to feel sorry for me or anyone else. But the truth is, we went through our own kind of hell. Knowing you needed our help, wanting to help you but not being able to. We couldn't find you. We couldn't get our hands on even one lead. And so, yeah, that was hell for us."

She swallowed hard, audibly, her stare locked onto him. Scrutinizing him. And, Hunter could tell, viewing him with far more suspicion than faith.

So, he pushed again.

"And then the FBI gave up. They said there was proof that you were dead. But you want to know what? _We_ didn't give up. Charlie and me, the other guys in the unit—hell, even Mallory—we kept trying, doing whatever we could, whatever we thought would help. But there wasn't anything. Not even rumors on the street to follow up. There was…nothing. You'd disappeared, vanished into thin air."

She pulled in a breath, the air shuddering conspicuously as she fought it down. And by the slightest degree, he saw her suspicion begin to wane.

So, he continued to push.

"For a while, I couldn't function. I took leave from work, from my family, my…life. I'd let you down, and I knew it. And all I could concentrate on was getting answers—some kind of end to the nightmare. Dead or alive, I wanted to bring you home. And not for me, not so I'd feel better, but for you. Because it was what you deserved, and it sure as hell was what I owed you."

Her face emptied of emotion, and she tilted her head slightly to one side. Making her look innocent, like a child who was trying to understand something that was still beyond her maturity to fully grasp.

So, he pushed harder.

"You were never really gone, because none of us ever figured out how to let you go." He shook his head faintly, with understanding. "It's not much of a consolation, I get that; I do. But I kept trying. I'd go back to the case files, read over them again, and then again. Looking for something that might've been missed the hundreds of times we'd all read them before. But there wasn't anything. And once the damned Feds chalked you up to being another one of Oscar Velasquez's casualties, they shut us out." He leaned forward, propping his forearms on his thighs, holding her stare with upturned eyes. "I'm sorry, Dee Dee. We're all sorry, you've gotta know that."

She swallowed his apology, fighting it down through a weak nod. She didn't fully understand yet, she hadn't completely begun to believe; he could see it in her eyes still. But at that same time, he saw a tinge of something different—something lighter, maybe—that made him hope she was finally ready to stop fighting so damned hard to hold onto distrust.

The door was almost open fully. Almost.

So, he gave a final shove.

"Don't keep shutting us out, please. I know you've been hurt, and I know right now you're confused…angry. You're scared. But so are the rest of us. So, please, don't shut us out. We all deserve to finally find some peace, don't you think?"

She sank down on the barstool, deflating. Finally believing, Hunter prayed.

"You've got to give us just a little break, okay? We don't understand everything, but that doesn't mean you have to condemn us for it. Help us understand instead. Help us finally be able to help you like we wanted to do all along."

He saw it in her then, unmistakably. The door swung open.

So, he charged through.

Not finding the old McCall on the other side, but finally, he was okay with that. He could live with it, he knew, because living with whichever Dee Dee was waiting there was better than living without either again.

"Just tell me what to do for you. Tell me how to help, and I swear to you, whatever it is you need, I'll do it. This time, no one's going to stop me."

She clasped her hands in her lap, her fingers knotting together. "Don't apologize anymore," she whispered. "I know it's how you feel, maybe how everyone feels. But for me, it doesn't change anything to hear you say it—that you're sorry."

"Okay," he said, nodding eagerly. "All right. No more apologies."

"And don't _feel_ sorry for me," she continued, her voice strengthening. "I don't want anyone's pity."

Hunter took in a breath. Her request would be an impossibility at best to follow through on, but he would work on it. Or more accurately, he would work on hiding his feelings from her so that when pity was all he could manage to feel, she wouldn't know it.

She ducked her head, her gaze dropping. "Don't keep things from me. This isn't just a case for me; it's my life. I deserve to know what's going on. So, don't treat me like I can't handle it and don't keep secrets from me."

"All right. No secrets." As she glanced up, her eyes darkened and questioning his sincerity, he nodded. "What do you want to know?"

She bit down on her bottom lip, the questioning in her eyes turning into confusion. "Everyone keeps saying they thought I was dead. Why?"

"Because someone screwed up, that's why," Hunter responded, matter of fact, like she wanted him to treat her. "When the Feds finally tripped over the house in Malibu, they found evidence in the bedroom. Blood, what was determined to be brain matter…fluids." He shrugged, helplessly. "I took a hairbrush from your house, and the Feds took it from there. They tested the samples and when the findings came back, the DNA was all linked to you. They said there was no way you could've survived."

Her brows dipped, her confusion becoming blatant. "The FBI tested it?"

Elliot nodded. "The FBI took control of the whole, damned investigation almost right from the start. Any information we got, we had to fight for."

She stuck the tip of a manicured thumbnail in her mouth, gnawing. Thinking, Hunter could tell. Remembering. "The, uh…the third guy," she finally said, her voice reaching a strength that Elliot recognized. That he had missed hearing. "The one they called Tony? I got a feeling about him. Like he was a dirty cop or, uh, or maybe even a dirty agent. He knew too much, more than he would've known if he'd just been another one of Velasquez's or Elian's men."

"Too much, like what?" Hunter prodded, Lydia Ortiz's and his earlier conversation flinging itself to the forefront of his mind. _Someone on the inside_, it was what they both suspected, and the suspicion that Dee Dee could blow wide open with her memories.

"I remember him telling Elian that he'd worked hard to lead the FBI in Oscar's direction, to point the finger at him for my disappearance," she explained. "And after Elian shot Oscar, he said something, like, Elian had ruined everything. It was like they were both out to get Oscar, but in different ways. Elian, obviously, wanted him dead, but Tony…" She shook her head, her brows scrunching. "He wanted him caught, it seemed like. Arrested. And from the things he said, it made me think he had an 'in'—a way to make it happen."

"Okay," Hunter said, nodding vigorously, encouraged. "All right, good." He hopped up from the chair, hurrying through the few steps that delivered him to the island. Filling the empty barstool beside her, he leaned in close. Intent. "Do you remember what he looked like? Do you remember anything at all about him?"

"I remember more than I wish I did," she admitted, sighing.

"I know, honey," he whispered, forcing a smile—albeit a weak one. "But whatever you can tell me is going to help."

She nodded. Knowing, understanding, not so far removed from the past for her to have forgotten. "Um. Around six-foot, I guess. Average build. He had dark hair. It looked black, but it was hard to tell for sure because he always wore a hat. A, uh…a ball cap."

"A ball cap, okay. Good." He hesitated, his stomach knotting. Dee Dee had told Ortiz about Malibu, about Oscar Velasquez and the hell he'd put her through. But she'd only talked about Velasquez—_only_. And as much as Hunter didn't want to know, he needed to know even more if he was the only one who'd been keeping secrets, or if she was keeping some of her own. "Did he, uh…this…this Tony. When you were in Malibu, did he—"

"No," she confirmed through a whisper. "Only Oscar."

He sighed, relieved. "All right. Is there anything else?" She was leading him down a path, one that before he'd seen as having an insurmountable obstacle in the middle of it. But now he realized it was actually the end of the road he was seeing. _An end_. But not for Dee Dee or him.

"Um." She shook her head, squinting. "Oh." She snapped her fingers, her eyes widening. "His voice. He had an accent, sort of. It was light, you know, but I picked up on it."

Hunter deflated somewhat, unconsciously. One step forward and possibly one, impossible to regain step back. "An accent, okay. Could you tell what kind? Was it Hispanic, like Velasquez's and Sandoval's?"

"No," she answered quickly, assuredly. "Eastern."

"Middle Eastern? You think this guy's from the Middle East?"

"No," Dee Dee said again, with a tinge of impatience. "East coast. Like, uh. I don't know for sure, but I remember thinking he sounded like someone from New Jersey or, uh…maybe New York. I remember noticing it—the way he talked."

Hunter's breath caught in his chest, turning into an iron-knuckle fist that began hammering at his lungs. In his mind, he heard the same voice that haunted Dee Dee's memories—the accent thick, the intention behind its words as suspicious as impossible to miss.

_"With all due respect, it doesn't exactly give us a lot of hope that she's alive. Trust me, we know how the Velasquez's work. And I'm sorry to say it, but wherever they dumped your sergeant's body, more than likely it'll stay there."_

Nasally and droning.

Derogatory. Arrogant.

Self-Serving.

Hunter jumped down from the barstool, rushing across the room. Grabbing the telephone receiver, he began to dial.

"Rick?" Dee Dee asked. "What is it?"

"The missing piece of the puzzle," he announced, settling the phone against his ear as he spun around to face her. "The piece Ortiz and I have been looking for. And you…" He pointed a finger in Dee Dee's direction. "Just put it into place for us." A broad smile caught on his lips, a wink following it. "Nice work, partner."


	17. Chapter 17

**SEVENTEEN**

She'd escaped into the bedroom again, hiding from him.

She'd left Hunter on the telephone, repeating what she'd told him to Lydia Ortiz. He seemed excited but in an agitated way. Almost like what she'd told him about Tony frightened him in some way, for some reason. But she wasn't interested enough to ask why, or to eavesdrop on his conversation in an attempt to figure it out. Her own mind was agitated enough already, preoccupied by counting off the minutes, the hours.

Wondering. Waiting.

Worrying.

"Hey."

She didn't turn away from the window at the sound of Hunter's voice, but continued to stare out of it. Watching the quiet street, wishing for a car to finally drive down it.

But not just any car carrying just any occupants.

"That was Lydia I was talking to."

She nodded; she knew. But still, she didn't turn around.

"Dee Dee, Avi's okay. She's fine."

She turned around then, her eyes filled with a mixture of questioning and disbelief. "Then why isn't she here?"

"She will be. Soon."

"How soon?"

He shrugged a shoulder and slid his hands into the front pockets of his blue jeans. "Lydia's been working with the Bureau Director. He flew in from Virginia this morning to oversee this thing, make sure nothing gets screwed up again."

"So, what? Now I need one more big shot's permission to see my daughter?"

"No…er, uh…" Hunter shrugged again, with a sense of helplessness. "Okay, no secrets?" he asked, an eyebrow arching to further question her. Once she nodded, making it clear that her mind was still set on their newly implemented rule, he continued. "It's Isabel Ramirez. She's saying that she's Avi's mother, and Sandoval is corroborating her claim. You know how it works. Even though everyone believes you about Avi being yours, they can't just hand her over to you without having solid proof first."

She sank back against the wall, knotting her arms across her chest. Solid proof meant DNA. She knew how it worked and understood the reasons behind it, but knowing and understanding didn't equal agreeing. "No," she responded. "No DNA test." She saw the look of questioning immediately cross Hunter's face, before he shook his head to reinforce his confusion. It was a simple request—a legitimate one, considering. Something she should be eager to agree to; something that, under normal circumstances, anyone desperate to prove themselves would even suggest having done. "No." She shook her head. "No tests."

"Dee Dee." Hunter sighed, sliding a hand over the top of his head. "Lydia's going to have to… No one's going to let her just take off with Avi. About to be convicted felons or not, Sandoval and Ramirez still have rights. And if Avi is theirs—"

"She isn't. She's mine."

"Then prove it."

"Why should I have to?" she shot back. The urge to fight was back; it was overwhelming. Damn it, she was tired of being taken from. For once—just once—she wanted something given back to her simply because she deserved it, not because she'd bowed down to demands and earned it.

"Because so far, Sandoval's the only one who's consented to DNA testing," Hunter answered. "So, the obvious gets proven—he's her father. But without solid proof to determine who her mother is, the only choice Corbin will have is to stick her in protective custody." He stepped forward, rounding the end of the bed. "I know what you said…what you think…about Ramirez and Avi, about her taking care of her. But Ramirez isn't going to be getting out of jail any quicker than Sandoval is, so that takes her out of the game." He arched a brow, his stare turning stern, honest. "And it leaves only one person still in it."

Dee Dee shook her head and then sank her hands into the sides of her hair, tousling the long strands. "You don't understand," she whispered. "There's more to it than just proving that, biologically, I am Avi's mother." Why couldn't she get a break—just _one_? After six years of fighting her way through Elian's form of hell, was that really asking for too much? She was tired of complying for no other reason than it was expected of her. She was tired of her feelings being disregarded, her wants overlooked and her rights ignored.

"What else is there?" he pushed, dropping down hesitantly on the end of the bed.

"It's…complicated."

"Then explain it so I can understand it."

_Understand it?_ She wanted to laugh, but couldn't find the energy within her to do so. What Hunter needed to understand, but she didn't know if he would be able to, was that it was about life versus death and self-worth versus self-loathing. It was about finding a way to survive and accepting—embracing—that way as the only way. Even when your own method sickened you as much as the immoral method forced upon you did.

"Dee Dee? We agreed on no secrets. Remember?"

She shook her head, quieting him, giving herself a second longer to recover both her strength and her voice. "You won't understand," she finally said, tears sparking in her eyes. "You don't know what it feels like to be…used…and for no other reason than it's what someone else can do to you. After a while, the dirt gets so deep inside of you there's no way to get it out, and you start wondering if there's any way someone else could ever want to be with you just for you and not because having you is what they believe they're entitled to." She smiled softly, tearfully. "I'm not talking about love. I'm talking about…respect, about feeling desirable and attractive. Like you're good enough and worthy enough for someone else to want."

"Dee Dee, you are—"

She shook her head even harder, once again silencing him. "All I wanted was to feel…I don't know. Good enough again, I guess." She took in a breath, long and deep; its only purpose to allow her to stall. "It was summertime, and Elian had gone on a trip. He'd flown to Colombia to visit his mother, and I was left in that damned room. I just sat there day after day, all alone." She saw the look of pity take hold of his face, and shook her head in disagreement of its emergence. "Don't feel sorry for me. Because what I did…"

"What?" he asked quickly, through a whisper. "What could you do?"

She fell back against the wall, exhausted, although embarrassment had begun a valiant fight to win control. "It started about two weeks after Elian left. Marcus would come into my room late at night. We'd, uh. We'd talk, sometimes watch TV, or play cards. It was nice, you know? I mean, he was nice to me. He didn't treat me like…he treated me like I was actually a person, like I was intelligent…interesting."

"That's how you deserve to be treated."

"That's not the point," she returned, scraping her bottom teeth hesitantly across her upper lip, stalling again. "The point is, we let things get out of hand—go too far. It only happened a couple of times. It was dangerous; we both knew it. I mean, if Elian had found out, Marcus would've been dead for sure, and he would've made me wish that I was. So, we stopped it, and we promised never to let it happen again."

"Rivera?" Hunter questioned under his breath. "He, uh…he…"

"He didn't do anything that I didn't want him to do," Dee Dee confirmed quickly, sternly. "It wasn't like with Elian. With Marcus, it was what we _both_ wanted. But then Elian came back from his trip, and, uh, and…" She shrugged a shoulder. "It wasn't long after that I realized I was pregnant again, with Avi." She watched Hunter's face drop, his jaw going slack and mouth gaping. It was what she feared most. Not losing her victim status, she was more than happy to hand that off to someone else. It was being the reason that opinions changed, to cause Hunter's opinion of her to change. Giving him a reason to doubt her, maybe even to begin to see her like Elian always had.

Worthless.

Dirty.

A whore.

"It's why they can't do the DNA tests," she continued, looking past Hunter's shock, needing to see understanding in him instead of judgment. "Do you understand now? I don't know for sure which one is Avi's father. And if it turns out that it isn't Elian, she'll never be safe again. He'll have her taken away or, or…worse. He'll have to do _something_, that's the way he'll see it. I humiliated him and disrespected him, and he won't be able to just let that go or overlook it. And I can guarantee you, Rick, that 'something'—whatever it ends up being—will be at Avi's expense. Because hurting her, Elian knows, will hurt me more than anything he could ever do to me."

Sighing, with Hunter's stunned silence still hanging between them, she made her way to the bed. Sitting down on the opposite corner from him, she let a few minutes tick by uninterrupted before continuing. "What Marcus and I did…we both knew it was stupid. It was risky, but _we're_ to blame, not Avi. She's just a little girl, just four-years-old. She hasn't done anything wrong, but Elian won't care about that. The most important thing in this world to him is respect, and he'll have to retaliate because I didn't respect him like I should have."

Hunter dropped his head forward, breathing out, breathing in, before scrubbing a hand wearily over his face. "Lydia's already started the ball rolling," he admitted, his voice dragging and tone reluctant. "She took swabs from Sandoval and Avi, has already sent them to the lab."

Dee Dee deflated through a hard breath. "But you said Isabel hasn't consented, right? So, if they don't have her DNA or mine, there's no reason to do the test—"

"Your DNA is on file," Hunter responded. "I told you, remember? The house in Malibu, after the Feds finally found it… I took your hairbrush from your house. I gave it to Gideon Stanton and Riley Porter."

"And that test got screwed up," she shot back quickly, wide-eyed. "Who knows if the DNA they have on file is even mine? I mean, six years ago it put me in the ground, so what'll it do to my daughter now?"

Hunter reached for her, only barely touching. Merely brushing his fingertips across her wrist. "Let me take another sample to Lydia. That way, everyone will know it's yours. Lydia's promised to oversee the testing, to make sure nothing goes wrong this time."

She yanked her arm out of his reach, cradling it in her lap. "You have to make sure at least one test gets messed up," she whispered, tears biting at her eyes. "It isn't Isabel's or my DNA that I'm worried about. But, Elian…" She climbed shakily to her feet, running her hands through the sides of her hair. "With Elian, uh. We've never used any type of birth control. And it's something I've thought about, you know? That in six years, I've only gotten pregnant twice. There's never even been a scare any other time." She sat down on the edge of the bed, but quickly stood back up, too jittery to stay still. "The first pregnancy, it…chances are good that it could've been from…Oscar. I mean, it was just a couple of months…after. And with Avi—"

"Chances are good again," Hunter cut in, his tone stiff. "You think Rivera's her father, don't you?"

She hesitated, before confirming his suspicion and her fear with a nod. "But Elian can't think it, he can't know. And if I'm right and the test proves that Avi…isn't… Please, Rick. Make sure someone screws up the test one more time."

**xxx**

If espionage was what got his blood pumping, he would've joined the fucking CIA.

Hunter pulled the ball cap onto his head, tugging on the bill until it concealed his forehead and partially hid his eyes. Halloween had never been one of his favorite holidays. Dressing up, becoming someone different, someone you weren't had always seemed ridiculous to him. And now, because of circumstances he couldn't seem to get any control over, the ridiculous had become a means of survival.

"Put this on, too."

He grumbled under his breath, taking the tan-colored jacket Lydia Ortiz held out to him. Slipping into it, he glanced down at the nametag embroidered on the upper right flap.

_P. Jenkins. Janitorial Staff_.

"A janitor?" he groused, as Lydia shoved a thin-handled broom at him.

"Hey. This is the Federal Bureau of Investigation, not Costumes-R-Us," she snapped. "It was either a janitor or parking lot attendant, and it'd be a little tough to explain why someone who's supposed to be keeping an eye on things outside is roaming around inside, don't you think?" She snapped her fingers at him, grinning. "Oh, and while we're sneaking through the halls, make sure you keep a good ten paces behind me, Cowboy. Don't want to draw attention to ourselves."

"I thought you said Corbin was going to make sure Stanton was out of the building?"

"He was sent out on a special field trip earlier this evening, but it's Gideon Stanton we're talking about—King of the Egotistical Pricks. Remember? You think even the Bureau Director could intimidate him into following an order that he didn't think up himself?" Lydia nodded toward the broom in Hunter's hands, before turning on her heels and taking off ahead of him. "Start sweeping, Jenkins," she said over her shoulder. "We're on a time schedule here."

Hunter set off, his steps double-timed to keep up with Lydia's quick pace. "So, what about the King of the Pricks?" he asked to Lydia's back, pushing the broom in front of him. "Did you talk to Corbin, tell him what Dee Dee said?"

"Took him out for a cup of coffee and told him everything you told me," she confirmed through a sharp nod. "As surprised as he is, he's in agreement with us. Based on the description your old partner gave of our mystery man, it sure seems like more than a coincidental match to Gideon Stanton. Plus, I checked his file. Guess who was born and raised on Long Island?" She stuttered to a stop, shooting another glance over her shoulder. "Only thing sticking in my craw? Stanton headed up the raid on John Diego Valesquez's warehouse, right? Ms. McCall, she met him, worked with him—"

Hunter shut her down with a shake of her head. "He spearheaded the operation, but we only saw him once. It was brief, a couple of minutes at the very start. After that, he kept a low profile. And the night of the raid, all communication was done via the radio, not in person."

"Okay, so." Lydia shrugged a shoulder. "We're talking six years, God only knows how much trauma…" She shrugged again, lazily. "It's possible she could forget a face she only saw once."

"She saw Stanton more than once," Hunter corrected sharply. "But only once before the raid on Velasquez's warehouse."

Lydia nodded, understanding even if not completely agreeing. "You know, I get it that right now you're finding it next to impossible to trust anyone associated with this organization, but at least give trusting me an honest effort. Okay? Stanton is…Stanton. But I promise you, Corbin is as straight as they come. He's got a good record with the Bureau, and even more important, he seems to be a decent human being. All he wants is the same thing you want—to get the justice for Ms. McCall that she deserves."

"So, you really think he's on our side?" Hunter asked warily, clutching the broom handle in white-knuckled hands.

"I don't think it, I know it," she responded confidently, setting off down the hallway again. "You're going to have to admit it sooner or later, you know. Not everyone who gets a paycheck signed by the FBI is a total jackass. That's just a select few."

"So, what? Is Corbin going to arrest the biggest jackass?"

"Sorry. That's confidential," she replied, matter of fact. "But if and when it happens, you'll be my first phone call."

_Confidential_. Hunter repeated the word through a grumble, shooting a glare at Lydia's back. Why the hell did Gideon Stanton deserve confidentiality when everyone expected Dee Dee to open herself up like a damned, large print book? Every detail from the intimate to the grotesque to the sickeningly normal had become public knowledge, with each and every Fed believing—under the guise of justice—that they had the right to know about it. But it was Dee Dee's life they were playing around so carelessly with; it was all she had left. Just a morsel of self-esteem and a daughter that he could tell by the look in her eyes when she talked about her she viewed as being more than enough to make up for the six years of hell Elian Sandoval had put her through.

"Speed it up, Jenkins. I'll give you a lift."

Hunter glanced up, seeing Lydia standing between the opened elevator doors. With a nod and glance from side to side to check for any busybodies paying attention to them, he slipped past the agent into the compartment. As the doors slid closed and Lydia filled the back, right corner, he popped up the bill of the cap. His thoughts veered toward the pink house and its current, lone occupant. Charlie had caught an early morning flight back to LA, under orders from Commander Stone to get back to business as usual, and when Hunter left to meet Lydia, Dee Dee seemed far less nervous about staying alone than he'd felt about it. She'd almost seemed relieved to have some time to herself, or more accurately, he groused, time away from him.

_"Keep the door locked, the phone close and stay away from the windows,"_ he'd instructed. Dee Dee had only rolled her eyes in response, sighing as she followed him to the front door and then practically shoved him out of it. He'd waited on the porch until he heard the click of the deadbolt engaging, and then he'd knocked.

_"You're supposed to keep the door locked,"_ he'd scolded once she pulled the barrier open and peeked out at him.

_"It was locked."_

_"Then why'd you open it?"_

_"Because you knocked,"_ she'd deadpanned, through another roll of her eyes.

_"I knocked to see if you'd open it."_

_"And I did. So?"_

_"So?"_

She had sighed, her eyebrows dropping and wrinkling. _"So? What do you want?"_

_"What do you mean, what do I want?"_

He'd watched irritation make a noticeable pass through her eyes, as she'd remarked dryly, _"Is there a point to all of this?"_

_"The point is you opened the door."_

With yet another, sharper roll of the eyes, she'd slammed the door shut and through the click of the deadbolt growled out from behind it, _"Then don't knock again! Then I won't open the door!"_

"Yoo-hoo. FBI Agent to Janitor Jenkins…"

Hunter blinked, shaking off the memory as he glanced across the compartment at Lydia. "Yeah?"

"Yeah?" she scoffed. "Where the heck did you just go?"

He shook his head again and scrubbed the back of his hand across his eyes. "Sorry. Haven't been sleeping much."

"A sleep deprived bodyguard really isn't worth much more than a short hill of beans, you know," Lydia sighed, although with a perceptible amount of concern in her voice. "Do us all a favor, huh, and grab a few Z's when you get back to the house? You need to get your edge back."

"I'm fine," Hunter mumbled in disagreement. "What'd you say that I missed?"

"If you were fine you wouldn't have missed it," she snapped, a sarcastic grin shimmying across her lips. "But what the hell? Since you asked so nicely…" She cocked one broad hip, leaning a shoulder into the wall. "You brought the goods, right?"

Hunter nodded. Stowed in his back pocket, stored securely in a zip-lock bag, was Dee Dee's toothbrush. She'd handed it over to him reluctantly, pleading with him again as he'd dropped it into the see-through bag,_"If the test results…if Avi…please. You can't let Elian find out." _She was as embarrassed as scared of the results, he instinctively knew. And maybe he didn't blame her for feeling either way. If the tests proved that Avi's father wasn't Elian Sandoval, questions would once again be posed and doubt would once again prod at minds. After all, Dee Dee was a victim, wasn't she? A victim of forced captivity, abuse, assault—rape. So, how could she…willingly…

Damn it. Were those his fears about what others might start thinking, or was it what he might start thinking that was scaring the hell out of him?

"Look, uh." He staggered his hands around the broom handle, his right hand gripping the smooth wood just above his left. "Ava Sandoval's DNA tests… We need the results to be kept confidential. I have to have your word they will be before I can hand over the toothbrush."

"You don't hand over the toothbrush and that leaves me with only tainted DNA to test," Lydia shot back, making it clear that Hunter's sullenness didn't intimidate her.

"I wasn't threatening," he returned. "I was asking."

"Asking?" she chuckled. "I don't know if I buy that. Sounded more like a threat to me." She hooked her arms across her chest, staring at him over the tops of her glasses. "We only have two more floors to go. Not nearly enough time to get through a game of Twenty Questions, so why don't you give me the condensed version of the explanation?"

Hunter clamped his lips together, shaking his head. "Can't do that."

"Can't?" Lydia asked, her eyes bugging. "You also can't give me an ultimatum without telling me why it's in my best interest to bow down to it."

What was he supposed to say? Honesty wouldn't do anything other than further tarnish Dee Dee's already spotty reputation. But on the flip side, silence could put Avi in jeopardy. He was between a rock and a hard spot, with one crushing his spine and the other bearing down on his chest.

The elevator stopped, the ding of a bell resounding inside of the compartment. Impatiently, Lydia slammed a fist into the wall panel, keeping the doors frozen in place, keeping them locked in. "What the hell is this?" she hissed. "What, now all of a sudden you're cutting me out of the loop, is that it?" She ripped the glasses off of her face, folding them closed and shoving them into the breast pocket of her steel gray-colored blazer. "You want to know how I've been spending my week, Hunter? Running this oversized ass of mine off, that's how. Running from Gideon Stanton, running to check out leads that—thank God—finally ran me head-on into your old partner's child, and trying my damnedest to outrun questions from the top dogs all the way down to the fucking parking lot attendants about whether or not I was the magician who made your old partner vanish. And in between all that running, I've been kissing ass—specifically Anthony Corbin's." She huffed out a breath, hooking her hands over her hips. "And now that I've finally pulled him over onto our side of the playing field, you're going to shut me out? Well, to hell with you. _You_ can kiss _my_ ass."

"I'm not—no!" Hunter snapped, his fiery stare locking with Lydia's. "Damn it. There's a good chance Avi isn't Sandoval's daughter. That's why the DNA results can't be made public."

In sync, both fell back against the walls behind them. Shaking his head, Hunter whispered a self-admonishing, "Damn," as Lydia overpowered him with a sharply barked, "Just how long did your old partner keep this little bombshell a secret?" She aimed a finger at him, her eyes narrowing. "And for both your sakes, the answer had better be, _not fucking long_."

"It hasn't…no…" Hunter responded, his voice low. "She just told me." He caught Lydia's impatient stare again, watching as she pushed the glasses back onto her nose. "She doesn't even know for sure herself. She just knows there's a chance. And she's afraid of how Sandoval will retaliate if he finds out he isn't the father."

Lydia blew out a hard breath, shaking her head. "So, Ms. McCall was assaulted by someone else in Sandoval's perverted compound? Why didn't she come clean about it? When she was giving her statement—"

"Because this guy didn't rape her," he admitted tightly. Christ. The rock and the hard spot were working as a team, trying to squeeze the life out of him. And he knew once Dee Dee found out how effortlessly he'd confessed her secret that wasn't his to tell, she would gladly join forces with them. "It was…it just…happened. Neither of them planned it, and it wasn't a real…thing. Just happened a couple of times."

"What, did your old partner skip out on Sex Ed classes when she was in school?" Lydia asked accusingly. "As far back as I can remember, as long as you make it up to the count of one your chances automatically increase to one hundred percent. How often it actually happens after that doesn't mean a whole hill of beans."

"She got pregnant, okay?" Hunter shot back irritably, with as much of a need to defend Dee Dee's character as he felt the need to expend at least a few seconds focusing on his annoyance with her. With Marcus Rivera she had been a willing participant, even though she'd still been his prisoner. She'd opened up to him, trusted him, even. So, if she could feel that comfortable with some immoral bottom feeder like Rivera, why in the hell was it still such a damned struggle for her just to say 'good morning' to him?

"I don't know much about it," he continued. "She wouldn't say a lot."

"Of course she wouldn't," Lydia growled under her breath. "You know, on her own your old partner is like a bur in my ass. But put the two of you together?" She shook her head, frowning. "Back in the good old days, anyone ever accuse you two of being hard to get along with?"

Hunter shrugged a shoulder. "A few times."

"Guess some things really don't ever change, huh?" Lydia glanced up at the number panel above the double doors, her frown remaining. Hunter watched as her eyes narrowed and then widened, the process repeating three more times before she looked back at him. "All right. Here's the plan," she grumbled. "Corbin's on his way here. As soon as he arrives, we'll get the two of you introduced and then let you meet the little offspring. I'll talk to Corbin about the DNA, see if we can find a way to get around testing it." She shuffled through a turn, facing him head-on. "As for the rest of it, Corbin and I have already worked out new details, okay, so go ahead and get it through your thick head now that you're just along for the ride."

"Details? What details?"

"Moving Ms. McCall," she answered, matter of fact. "As humble as Granny's abode is, she can't stay there forever. I mean, as many times as you and I have been in and out of the front door and now that we've used the house phone, someone who shouldn't will figure out that's where she's staying. Corbin's making arrangements for a safe house; he's put together a small team of agents that he knows he can trust to help us with both the move and security. Once we get her resettled, she'll stay there until Sandoval's trial. And after she testifies—"

"Testifies?" Hunter barked. "What the hell—"

"What the hell?" Lydia snapped back. "She's our star witness. Surely both of you have already figured out we're going to need her to testify against the son of a bitch. I mean, come on. You're pains in the ass, yeah, but I haven't taken either one of you for being stupid."

Hunter tightened his grip around the broom handle, squeezing, his fingers numbing. _Testify_. The thought—the realization—had been lurking at the back of his mind, he couldn't deny it, but he wasn't sure if it had made an appearance in Dee Dee's yet. Unpredictability and hotheadedness aside, after she had stammered her way through her statement, he'd begun to sense at least some relief in her. Her part was finished—admitting what had happened to her, what had been done _to_ her, spilling what few secrets of Sandoval's she knew, and leaving herself vulnerable to others' doubts as much as the pity that she didn't want.

She had done her part.

Damn it, she'd done _enough_. She'd survived.

"I don't think she can do it," he responded.

"She doesn't get a choice this time," Lydia returned coolly. "A taped statement isn't going to be good enough in court. We need Ms. McCall to be seen and heard, to snag the sympathy vote. It's the only way we're going to take down Sandoval for more than just drug charges."

"But they're…married…" he argued, with the words sticking in his throat.

"Not by Ms. McCall's choice, so that makes her a hostile witness." She shrugged offhandedly. "Who do you think will dispute that?"

"Sandoval's attorneys?" Hunter scoffed.

"Larry, Moe and Curly," Lydia returned with a roll of her eyes. "Even they're not too stupid to realize she's the nail that's going to seal Sandoval's coffin shut. So, let them fight her taking the stand. Trust me, it's a fight they've already lost."

**xxx**

She sat in the bedroom, huddled on the floor, darkness surrounding her.

From down the hallway, in the kitchen, she heard the telephone begin to ring. Again.

_One, two, three, four_… Four rings. Silence.

Just like the last three times it had rung.

When the first call came through, she'd had the handset beside her—close like Hunter told her to keep it. The ring startled her, causing her to drop the issue of _Time Magazine_ she'd been flipping through and lose her place. Not that it had mattered. The issue was dated July of 1987; the article recapping the Iran-Contra affair was something she was barely skimming.

It was nothing more than a way to mindlessly pass the time, just like she'd always thought of the books Elian gave her to read.

In the middle of the second ring, she'd answered. She more or less stammered her 'hello,' the concept of using the telephone for the first time in six years setting off a swarm of butterflies in her stomach.

_"Hello?"_ she'd said a second time, louder, stronger. Wondering why Hunter hadn't immediately answered back? Was he testing her again like he'd done with the door, or had something happened after he'd dialed to steal his attention?

After her second 'hello' was when the call disconnected, with only silence following it. And so she'd shrugged off her worry, tried to laugh at her paranoia, and dug back into the 1987 issue of _Time_. Lights had been on in the house then—the low-wattage bulb over the stovetop, both lamps in the living room and the overhead fixture in her bedroom. The TV was on, keeping her company in the living room although, as she was used to doing, she'd muted the sound. But she liked catching the movement out of the corner of her eye and glancing up to see faces.

And then the second call came and the first scenario was repeated—one-and-a-half rings, two hellos, and then silence. Hunter had forgotten to leave her Lydia Ortiz's office number, so she hit star-69.

_Nothing_.

The call couldn't be completed; the number was blocked.

So, she reacted rationally. By turning off the television, the lights in the kitchen and living room, and hunkering down on the floor in front of the front door.

And then the third call came, but she didn't answer it.

If it was Hunter and she didn't answer, he would get worried and come back to the house. Not that she would ever admit it to him, but she was beginning to like having him around. There were differences between them now, but even still, she was learning to appreciate—versus get angry at—his efforts. He'd gotten good at knowing when she wanted to be left alone and when she didn't mind him pestering her. When she wanted casual conversation, he was a willing participant, and when she needed to be pushed to go deeper, he didn't seem afraid to do the pushing. For as odd as their situation was, they were slowly turning it into a routine. One they were creating together and making into something they were both comfortable with it being.

Four rings. It was the duration of the third, fourth and fifth calls. And after the fifth call finally silenced, without premeditation or realizing it, she'd run down the hallway into her bedroom, flipped off the light and stuffed herself into the furthest corner from the doorway.

_Ring_.

Dee Dee tensed, hugging her legs to her chest, staring, unblinking, at the black hole that was the doorway. Hunter wouldn't keep calling and hanging up, and if he had called, he would've come back to the house when she didn't answer. She knew that much about him; she remembered that much. He was overprotective to a fault, with suspicion being his first nature. And if it were anyone else trying to reach her—Lydia Ortiz, even Charlie—they would've called Hunter if they didn't get an answer.

_Ring. Ring_. _Ring_.

Silence.

A weapon—she needed a weapon. Other than the bedside lamp, there wasn't anything remotely threatening in her room, and the most intimidating items she could think of in the bathroom were the 'his and hers' plastic-handled, disposable razors. So, that left only one choice—to force herself out of the corner and back to the kitchen. There at least, she could get her hands on a knife.

_Count of three_, her mind whispered timidly, before countering with a mocking, _You do realize Hunter will think you've gone completely crazy if he walks in and finds you sitting in the dark—in a corner—holding a knife? _Appearances should probably be at the top of her To Worry About list, especially considering no one had reached a final conclusion yet about either her degree of sanity or trustworthiness. But then again, paranoia was an admirable opponent against rationality.

And in only a few seconds time, paranoia proved itself to be the stronger of the two.

So, she started running.

She made it almost all the way through the living room before she noticed it, the realization merely nipping at her consciousness like a passing thought that didn't really matter or fully register at first. But as soon as she rounded the corner into the kitchen, it crashed down on her like a boulder.

Staggering to a stop, flattening a hand against the wall to steady herself, she froze. Processing what she thought she'd seen, with her mind both chiding her for acting foolishly and warning her that she'd been a fool not to act sooner. Inhaling shakily, she glanced over her shoulder into the dark pit of the living room. It was the last breath her lungs found the strength to draw in, as her stare landed on the window on the far side of the room. The pane was raised, the curtains shimmying silently as the night breeze trickled in through the aperture. Cooling the room while at the same time causing beads of sweat to break out across her forehead.

_The phone_.

Damn it, where had she left the—

_Ring_.

She jumped at the sound of the chime, its shrillness sending a shiver through her. From the center of the table, the cordless receiver illuminated. Shining like a beacon, forcing her toward it.

"Rick…"

She whispered his name, her voice shaky, her hand even shakier as she tried to keep the phone steady. A heavy breath filtered across the line, and she turned slowly back toward the window.

"Well, well. I must say, it is nice to hear your voice again, Mrs. Sandoval."

Backing up with one hand clutching the phone and her other arm stretched out behind her, she grasped at air—grasped for _something_—continuing to shuffle backwards into the kitchen.

"I trust Lieutenant Hunter is treating you well? Although there's no way he can offer you the luxuries that your husband has."

Her palm bumped the knife rack, her fingers instantly tightening around a long, smooth handle. She yanked the utensil out of the wooden stand, unconsciously thrusting it in front of her, swiping at the humid air, searching for a so far unseen target.

"I have to tell you, Elian isn't happy with you. He isn't happy at all. In fact, he's very disappointed."

"Who is this?" she whispered, although she already knew. She remembered.

"Let's just say someone who hasn't forgotten his loyalty to your husband," the voice scoffed. "But that's something you don't know much about, is it? Loyalty?"

She swiped at the air again. Not finding a target but continuing to hunt for one, anyway.

"Come on now. We both know Elian trained you better than this."

"Leave…me…alone…" Dee Dee whispered.

The voice chuckled humorlessly. "I'm sure the FBI has been feeding you plenty of attractive lies, but rest assured, Mrs. Sandoval, no pink slip has changed hands. You have one owner—the same owner—and believe me, he's still very much in control. And right now, the one thing that has him the most upset is that you seem to have forgotten your place."

Dee Dee backed into the cabinet, letting the knife drop to the floor and sinking down after it. She balled forward, hugging her knees to her chest. No longer searching the darkness for danger, no longer needing to. It was all around her, in the air, in control of her memories, imbedded in her soul.

"Since it seems you've forgotten your place, your husband is sending a reminder to help you remember what it is. Keep in mind this can be the first of many, or the one and only. It's your choice, and if I were you, Mrs. Sandoval, unlike the other choices you've made so far, I'd make this one wisely."


	18. Chapter 18

**EIGHTEEN**

"This is our one and only chance to get out of testing the kid's DNA, so do us all a favor, huh, Hunter, and play nice? From what I've seen so far, this girl spooks easily. You come on too strong and that'll be it. She'll shut down on us, then we'll be two steps behind square one again."

Hunter nodded stiffly, swiping the pad of his thumb beneath his nose. Christ's sake, the Feds kept their house hot. Sweat had beaded across his forehead, and his brain felt like flames were biting at its edges. He needed air, damn it—fresh and clean and cooler than one hundred degrees Fahrenheit. Something he could breathe in and actually ingest instead of choking on.

Lydia nodded in response, and with one twist of the silver knob, flung the door to the interview room open. She pushed ahead of Hunter, waltzing inside wearing a broad smile and with her steps heavy enough to echo off the concrete walls. "Ms. Ramirez, I brought someone I'd like to introduce you to," she announced, her smile remaining in place as she pulled one and then a second chair away from the table, motioning for Hunter to fill one as she plopped down in the other.

"Ms. Ramirez," Hunter managed to choke out, as he fell into the dark, fear-filled eyes across the table. Isabel Ramirez didn't look like the monster his mind had envisioned, far from it. She was young, pretty, innocence her most prevalent feature. Her eyes weren't empty like Sandoval's, but swirling with emotions, and instead of oozing arrogance and confidence like her uncle did, she fidgeted and fought back tears, like any frightened child would be expected to do. Damn it. He hadn't expected her to be so human, so wounded. He'd wanted to hate her; he'd been prepared to hate her. But now, face to face with the person versus the monster who'd been living in his mind, it was pity he felt for Isabel Ramirez.

"Isabel—do you mind if we call you Isabel?" Lydia asked, giving a hearty nod as Isabel answered with a shake of her head. "Good, that's good. Makes it feel like we're friends, doesn't it, if we're on a first name basis?" She dropped her hands down on the tabletop, the young woman jumping at the sound of the slap. "This other friend I brought with me is Lieutenant Hunter, but you can call him either Rick or Hunter. That's what Dee Dee calls him, you know—either one of those. And that's because he's her friend. In fact, at one time they were real good friends. Such good friends that all that time Dee Dee was living in Coral Gables, Hunter here never stopped thinking about her or hoping one day she'd come back home."

Isabel's eyelids fluttered, long, dark lashes kissing the tops of her cheeks as her gaze dropped to the tabletop. She shrugged a shoulder weakly, her lips parting but voice remaining silent.

"You could've helped her, Isabel," Lydia continued. "Could've helped her get back home to her friends. Friends like Hunter here who were worried about her and missed her."

Isabel's gaze shot up, belief widening her eyes. "I couldn't. Uncle, he wanted her to stay. He saved her from Oscar."

"That he did," Lydia agreed. "Dee Dee told me all about it herself, how your uncle shot Oscar."

Isabel nodded quickly, in agreement. "Oscar's the one who hurt her, Uncle never did. He gave her a good life. He gave her beautiful things. He made sure she had everything she wanted."

"Everything?" Lydia questioned, an eyebrow arched. "What about a one-way plane ticket to Los Angeles? Did he ever give her that? Did he ever even offer to give it to her?"

Isabel's lips gaped, her gaze flitting back and forth between Lydia and Hunter. "He's always been good to her," she whispered."

"Always…" Lydia returned in a whisper, before sucking in a long, whistling breath. "Isabel, come on now. Friends don't lie to each other, right?" She tapped her knuckles on the tabletop, securing Isabel's attention. "You want to know what I think? I think your uncle has been real good to _you_. I'm learning a little something about your family, and I know that your mama's never had a man around to help her out. She's done her best, but you've always been poor—dirt poor. Then your uncle comes along, brings you to the good, old, prosperous U.S. of A. to live in his big house with him, pays for you to get a good education, and all he's ever asked for in return is your loyalty. So, you feel you owe it to him now, and I can understand that, Isabel, I really can."

Hunter glanced back and forth between the two women, silently urging on Lydia. She was good at what she did; he couldn't deny that. Tough in the interrogation room, willing only to settle for honesty, but her tactics were backed by compassion. She dished out bullshit by the scoopful, but she did it without any trace of intimidation. She was genuine, Hunter had already figured out. Open to giving anyone a fighting chance at winning her over.

"Uncle…saved…me," Isabel murmured.

"He saved you," Lydia agreed, nodding. "And he saved Dee Dee once. But after that one time with Dee Dee, he didn't do a whole lot of saving anymore, did he? Instead, he hurt her, and not just one time, but a whole lot of times."

"No," Isabel returned quickly, a quiver in her voice. "No, he—"

"Kidnapped her, Isabel," Lydia cut in sternly, leaning her chest into the table. "He kidnapped Dee Dee, held her prisoner in that big, old house of his, and he abused her. Not just once, not twice, but over and over again for six years. And you knew he was doing it, didn't you? The whole time, you knew."

The dark eyes across the table landed on Hunter, tears shimmering in them. As much as he wanted to be angry with her, to lash out and scream and shout and accuse, he couldn't do it. She was too much like Dee Dee, too shell-shocked, confused, frightened and needing desperately to continue believing what she'd been conditioned to believe, but with questions, for the first time, beginning to chip away at her faith. The truth was, Isabel was just another one of Sandoval's victims, the bastard having preyed mercilessly on her naivety.

"Your uncle can't save you this time, Isabel," Hunter said. "He can't do anything for you. So, what's going to end up happening is you'll be charged with kidnapping Avi, and more than likely you'll also be charged as an accessory to false imprisonment, maybe even to rape. And when you put all those charges together, they add up to a whole lot of time in prison."

"No…" Isabel whimpered with a hard shake of her head. "No. I, I didn't—"

"Yes, you did," Lydia broke in sternly, sounding like a mother scolding a child. "Because you knew what your uncle was doing. How many times did you hear Dee Dee cry? How many times did you hear her beg your uncle to leave her alone, and how many times did you try to help her?" She shrugged a broad shoulder. "How many times did you call the police? How many times when your uncle was away did you try to help Dee Dee get out of that house?"

Isabel swallowed hard, audibly, teardrops sprinkling her cheeks. "I…couldn't. I couldn't…do…anything."

"Why not?" Lydia asked softly, soothingly.

Isabel _was_ Dee Dee. Hunter could see the fear in her eyes, wild and swirling, palpable. She knew how to trust only one person, even though deep down she knew he was the one person who shouldn't be trusted. But Sandoval had exerted his control over her; he'd made her believe in it. And now turning her back on it—on him—was something she wasn't strong enough to do.

"Did he threaten you?" Hunter asked, leaning into the table and stretching out his arms in the woman's direction. He forced a smile, weak but sincere, refusing to lose contact with the dark eyes. "Is that why you couldn't help Dee Dee? Is it why you took Avi?"

She licked her lips, tears drenching her flushed cheeks. "I would never hurt Avi. I love her."

"Of course you do," Lydia agreed. "How couldn't you? You've taken care of her since she was brand, spanking new."

Isabel nodded eagerly. "She's mine—_my_ daughter. And I want to see her. When can I see her? I know she's frightened—"

"She's just fine," Lydia assured. "Right now, she's dining on chicken nuggets, fries and a root beer float." She propped an elbow on the tabletop, sinking her chin into her upturned palm. "But since we are talking about Avi, I feel the need to bring up something that's been sticking in my craw. And that something is, just what exactly _is_ your relationship with your uncle? Because if this baby really is yours and really is Elian Sandoval's… See, I don't know a lot about what's looked upon as being acceptable and unacceptable in Colombia, I'll give you that, but I do know a whole lot about what's acceptable and unacceptable in the United States. And, well, Isabel, an uncle and his blood niece having children together…" Her eyes bugged over the rims of her glasses. "That's not something most people think is acceptable in any way, shape or form. You see, it's called incest, and in my country, it's frowned upon."

In Isabel's young face, Hunter watched the truth begin to show itself. One at a time, the lies were crumbling around her, just like her world was. Another push was what she needed, a tiny shove like he'd given Dee Dee. "Avi is going to end up in foster care," he said, Isabel's teary stare shifting to him. "That's the only choice we'll have—to make her stay with strangers."

"You can't… No," Isabel stammered.

"Like Hunter said, what other choice do we have?" Lydia asked, matter of fact. "We have two women claiming to be that little girl's rightful owner, and we have those same two women refusing to consent to DNA testing. And since these aren't Biblical times and it's against the law to saw that little body in half and give you both an equal share, well. That sort of limits our options. If we can't prove who is the rightful owner, then we have to pick a temporary one."

"No," Isabel whispered. "No, no…no…" She looked back and forth between them. "Dee Dee's okay with this? With…foster care?"

"Why wouldn't she be?" Lydia lied, before Hunter had the chance formulate a fib of his own. "If Avi isn't her child anyway, why would it matter to her where she ends up?"

"Because she…she's…" Isabel's voice faded into tears.

"She's?" Lydia prodded. "Come on, hon. Whatever you need to get off your chest, now is the time. While you're among friends."

_Keep pushing_, Hunter's instincts screamed at him. Isabel wanted to break, just like Dee Dee had wanted to so many different times. To break the silence, the cycle, the damned craziness that never should've been allowed to find life outside of Elian Sandoval's twisted mind.

"You shouldn't have to pay for your uncle's mistakes," he said. "Because I can tell they aren't mistakes you wanted to make. He made you help him, didn't he? He forced you?"

"The only way we can help you is if you help us," Lydia added softly, motherly. "And that's exactly what Lieutenant Hunter and I would really like to do. We'd like to help you out of this mess."

Isabel sniffled, running shaky hands across her cheeks. She smiled feebly, as if letting them know they'd guessed her secret and she was relieved that it was finally out in the open.

"Tell us," Lydia said. "And I promise you, we'll take care of you to the very best of our abilities."

"I'll be sent back to Colombia," Isabel said, her smile fading and tears reemerging. "It's what Uncle promised. I would go back and the money he sends my mother would stop. Uncle doesn't tolerate disloyalty. He's unable to forgive it."

"Hon, your uncle is never going to see the light of day again," Lydia said. "So, the money is gone, anyway. But I can make you a promise right here and now. If you help us out, I'll personally make sure you stay in this country just as long as you want to."

The dark eyes stared, questioning, distrusting, wanting to trust. They scrutinized Lydia and then Hunter, the practice repeating—dragging out—minute after minute, with her hesitance as strong as her tears and her desperation as overwhelming as her fear. "I didn't know," she finally said, barely above a whisper, causing both Hunter and Lydia to lean in closer. "At first, I didn't…know. The night Uncle brought Dee Dee home, she wasn't right. She had…bruises, a lot of them. She couldn't walk on her own and her words, they were slurred. She could hardly keep her eyes open, she seemed weak. Uncle told me what Oscar had done to her; he said he'd had to give her a sedative to calm her down. And I…I believed him. I believed him when he said he'd saved her, that he'd brought her to Coral Gables to keep her safe."

Lydia nodded eagerly. "Okay, good. That's a good start, Isabel. So, when did you realize your uncle was fudging the truth?"

"The next day," Isabel answered, shrugging. "I took Dee Dee something to eat, and she…she told me. She asked me to help her, but I didn't believe her. So, I told Uncle what she'd said."

"And?" Lydia pressed.

"He got angry. He said my job was to cook and clean, not to get involved in his personal affairs. He said if I insisted on prying then he would send me home to Colombia and he would stop sending Mama money." She shook her head slowly, lethargically. "Mama couldn't survive without Uncle's money. It's the only thing that keeps her from having to live on the street. So, I… What other choice did I have? I closed my eyes and my ears, and I pretended to be as ignorant as Uncle wanted me to be."

"But you aren't ignorant, are you?" Lydia said. "You knew what was going on the whole time."

She sniffled, nodding. "I would hear them…at night. Dee Dee would cry. In the beginning, she begged him. I wanted to help her—I did. But I didn't know how. I was too afraid of what Uncle would do if I interfered."

Hunter felt his stomach make a slow creep into his chest. _Cry. Beg_. In an instant, with two tiny words, Isabel Ramirez transformed into the monster he'd expected her to be all along. She became soulless in his eyes, no different than her uncle. In his head, Dee Dee's voice began to ring—shrill, frightened, helpless—and he stared at the deceptively naïve woman across from him with anger and questioning only.

_Fuck compassion_.

Where was her compassion for Dee Dee when it was what Dee Dee needed? One phone call would've ended the nightmare—_one fucking call_. But Isabel had been too afraid of what she would lose to care that day after day and night after night, Dee Dee was losing another piece of herself.

Lydia cleared her throat, shooting a warning glance at a tensed Hunter, seeming to interpret his darkening mood. "All right," she pushed forward. "So, how long had you been listening to her cry before she figured out she was pregnant the first time?"

Isabel clasped her hands on the tabletop, her knuckles whitening. "I don't know for sure," she answered honestly, quietly. "Not long. One morning when I took her breakfast to her, she was in the bathroom—sick. It made me worry, so I told her I would ask Uncle to call his physician, but she said no. She asked me not to say anything to him. Instead, she wanted me to bring her a home pregnancy test."

"But you didn't take the test to her, did you?" Hunter snapped. "Just like she didn't want you to do, you told your uncle."

"Hunter…" Lydia whispered in warning, shooting a glare at him. "Now's not the time. The past can't be changed, only the future can be." She flashed a smile, broad and toothy and insincere, nodding in Isabel's direction. "We know what happened with that first pregnancy, but what about with Avi? What happened the day she was born?"

Isabel glanced warily at Hunter, before refocusing on a still grinning Lydia. "Dee Dee had her at home. She was in so much pain…" She winced, running a hand beneath her nose. "Her labor lasted so long, over twenty-four hours. But she couldn't…the baby wouldn't come. So, Uncle finally called his physician to the house."

"And after Avi was born, your Uncle promoted you from household grunt to nanny?" Lydia asked. "Is that the way it worked?"

"I've taken care of Avi since the minute she was born."

"And so earlier in the week it just seemed natural to you to kidnap her?" Lydia pressed. "I mean, since you've played Mommy to her for so long and all?"

"No!" Isabel squealed, wide-eyed. "I didn't kidnap her. Uncle told Marcus and me to take her. He said she wasn't safe, and we were to hide her until we got further instructions." She fell back in the chair, her brows knotting. "And I never _played_ Mommy; I _am_ her mother. Maybe I didn't give birth to her, but I've done everything else for her. I've been with her through every milestone, _every_ minute of her life."

"Every milestone and minute that your uncle kept Dee Dee from being a part of," Hunter growled, his hands fisting atop the table.

"It was for Avi's own good!" Isabel argued. "I'm Colombian, and so is she. I can teach her about her culture, her language—all the things she needs to know. What can Dee Dee teach her?"

"How about how to be compassionate?" Hunter laughed angrily. "How to be a decent human being?" He pushed back in the chair, the blunt ends of the legs screaming out as they skidded over the tile floor. Jumping to his feet, he turned a full circle, a rigid finger aimed at Isabel when he came to a stop. "You're a bigger coward than your uncle. And if it were up to me, you'd never see Colombia again. You'd stare at the same four walls of the same cell for the rest of your life. Just like your uncle and you had every intention of making Dee Dee do."

"No! You're wrong!" Isabel cried, slamming her fists down on the tabletop. "I would never hurt Dee Dee! She's my friend!"

"Your friend?" Hunter seethed, his face hardening with both disgust and disbelief. "If this is how you treat your friends, I don't want to know what you do to your enemies!"

Isabel slumped forward in the chair, sobbing silently. She shook her head, sniffling, dabbing at her face with trembling hands. And in that moment, the monster retreated and victim once again emerged. Hunter saw her clearly, sickeningly. Just like in the beginning when Dee Dee had tirelessly defended Sandoval, Isabel was doing the same thing and for the same reason. Because believing in the twisted son of a bitch was the only tangible thing she'd ever been given to believe in. Wrong or right, harmful or kind, his words and actions were real. They had always been brutally real. And even when frightening, once something was proven to be real, what other choice did you have but to put all of your faith in it?

"So, you're admitting that Dee Dee is the child's biological mother?" Lydia said, her voice low and flat.

Hesitantly, Isabel nodded; dark curls shimmying back and forth across her drooped shoulders. "Maybe I didn't give birth to Avi, but Dee Dee's never been her mother." She glanced up, honesty vibrant in her eyes. "Uncle's only ever had one purpose for Dee Dee. I knew it, but there was nothing I could do to help her. How could I? I couldn't even help myself."

**xxx**

"Rick Hunter, Anthony Corbin."

Lydia's introduction hung between the two men, Hunter taking a moment to dissect the six-feet-something, salt and pepper-haired man before extending his right hand. There wasn't anything surprising about the Bureau Director, Hunter decided. As far as Feds went, Corbin looked the part. With his hair cropped short, eyes a little on the beady side, smile easily accessible—although not entirely sincere—and frame draped in an expensive, perfectly pressed suit, Hunter would be able to pick him out in a crowd.

"Lieutenant Hunter," Corbin said as their grasp broke. "I have to say, I've been hearing a lot more about you than I've cared to."

Hunter forced a grin, grunting a laugh under his breath. Ortiz had promised that Corbin was one stuffed suit that could be trusted. And even though his mind hadn't yet settled on a final verdict, considering his options were hovering somewhere between nil and non-existent, he decided to go with the only sure bet he'd found all week and once again put his faith in Lydia Ortiz. "Same here," he said. "So, what's your thought? Are you planning to bring charges against Dee Dee?"

"Straight to the heart of the matter," Corbin responded with a tight smile of his own. "I appreciate it when people don't waste my time." He motioned over his shoulder with a tilt of his head, instructing Hunter and Lydia to head off down the corridor with him. "I've been in contact with your captain, Lieutenant, and I'll give you the same assurance I've given him—no. Especially after listening to Ms. McCall's recorded statement, no charges will be brought against her. Anyone would be hard pressed to find a charge to bring against her."

Hunter took in a breath, his first since sneaking in through the backdoor of the Federal Building three hours earlier. "What about Stanton?"

"We've got our eyes on him," Corbin assured, staying one step ahead of both Hunter and Lydia, as they made their way down the hall. "But the fact is, at this point we don't have the evidence needed to link him to Sandoval. The only way we'll be able to do that is if Ms. McCall can identify him, and not just by verbally giving a description but by picking him out of a lineup."

"He's been with the Bureau for a long time, Hunter," Lydia added. "We need solid, indisputable evidence before we attempt to take him down. Otherwise, it'll just turn into one hell of a mudslinging match that we'll end up losing. And if that happens, where does it leave Dee Dee and her daughter?"

_Dee Dee and her daughter_. For the second time in three hours, Hunter found breathing easier to do. Finally, the questioning was taking second place to belief, and as it should have been from the very beginning, Dee Dee was getting the support she deserved. "Then have her pick him out of a lineup," he said. "She can do it."

"I don't doubt there's much she can't do once she puts her mind to it," Lydia agreed, nodding. "But at the moment, we have a more important matter to focus on instead of Gideon Stanton."

They came to a stop in front of a door marked _Private_, and Lydia flung the barrier open. She waltzed inside with Corbin on her heels, muttering something about the hour of the night and a missed bedtime, and as much as Hunter wanted to follow behind them, he couldn't seem to do it. Damn it, it felt like de ja vu. His stomach was making a slow creep into his chest, burning everything in its path. It was like he was outside of the interrogation room again waiting to facedown an older and changed version of Dee Dee. Only this time, it was scarier. It was the younger, unknown version.

"Hello?" Lydia said, sticking her head and shoulders back through the doorframe, her eyes widened behind the lenses of her glasses. "We got a joint invitation to this party, you know. I never planned on attending stag."

Hunter managed a nod, albeit a stilted one.

_She_ was inside—confused, scared. Too immature to ever be able to understand why her life had been uprooted so brutally. But on the other hand, he needed to be rational. It wasn't like he'd never been around a kid before. Maybe he didn't understand them exactly, their inner workings, inside and out, but he knew how to deal with them, and on a good day, he could communicate with them. So, all things considered, he wasn't all that bad with kids.

"Is this going to become a habit with you?" Lydia snapped. "Zoning out at the times that are the most inconvenient for me?" She sighed heavily, with a shake of her head. "She's a kid, Hunter. You know what that is, right—a short version of an adult? In the big picture, maybe kids' vocabularies aren't quite as advanced as adults', but let me tell you, their words are a hell of a lot more honest."

Hunter nodded, again stiltedly. "So. She's, uh…she's—"

"Inside," Lydia cut in impatiently. "In my opinion, she's a little shell-shocked, but no worse for the wear. Looks, though, like she wouldn't be all that opposed to having a comfy bed to crawl into." She flipped her left wrist over, glancing at her watch. "Damn. It's almost three in the morning. Granted, I don't know a hill of beans about kids, but I'm going to take a wild guess and say we've blown this one's nighttime routine right out of the proverbial water." She shook her head, sighing. "Greasy chicken and fries for dinner, soda mixed with sugary ice cream for a drink, no bath and up past bedtime. Guess that takes us out of the running for Temporary Guardians of the Year."

"But she's…I mean…"

"Hunter, she's a _kid_," Lydia said sternly. "Is this easy for her? No. Is she scared right now? Out of her underdeveloped mind. But she's also resilient, and if you'll move your procrastinating ass from out there to in here, we can start working on a plan that'll give her just a touch of stability back in her life. And that means getting her back to her rightful owner."

Hunter choked down a swallow. "Dee Dee?"

Behind the lenses, Lydia rolled her eyes. "Take a look at her. As far as I'm concerned, DNA can be damned. Sometimes it's what you end up getting at face value that makes a conclusion inarguable."

"Besides," Corbin added, sticking his head outside beside Lydia's, "we have Isabel Ramirez's admission that she didn't give birth to her."

"So no DNA?" Hunter asked.

"Not at the moment," Corbin confirmed. "DNA samples will be kept on file, and on the off chance a judge requires a definitive conclusion, it'll be tested then. But for right now, I see absolutely no reason to keep Ms. McCall separated from her daughter any longer than she already has been."

Hunter managed another nod, relief nipping cautiously at his mind. But it took what had become a customary backseat to nervousness once he refocused on the fact that only a few steps separated him from her—Dee Dee's daughter. A living, breathing, opinionated human being whom he wasn't entirely certain he'd accepted yet as being real. He listened eagerly to what little information about her that Dee Dee offered, wondering with the receipt of each tidbit how it was that she'd convinced herself to love her. He wasn't hardhearted; he understood that parents had an unconditional love for their children. But that understanding revolved around children born under normal circumstances, maybe not always out of want but definitely with love, or at the very least, mutual caring.

"Oh. And a word of warning?" Lydia said, thumping her fist against the metal doorframe and startling Hunter out of his thoughts. "She's not all that friendly. So, if I were you, I wouldn't turn my back on her for too long."

"Lieutenant Hunter," Corbin interjected, impatience weighting his voice. "Let's keep in mind, Gideon Stanton works on his own schedule, more or less. The last thing we need is for him to show up and create a scene in front of the child." He nodded over his shoulder, into the room. "I think it's in everyone's best interest if we get her moved before he has a chance to do that."

"Moved, right," Hunter stammered in agreement.

"Which means you have to move first," Lydia said. She waved a hand between them, before pushing off the doorframe and disappearing into the room.

_Move_, Hunter's brain instructed his less than agreeable feet, and he nodded his head to reinforce the idea. It was a kid, for Christ's sake—nothing to be intimidated by, completely controllable and easily influenced. So, he could win her over. Right? It wasn't like he hadn't done it before. There were years worth of kids in his past, some frightened beyond belief, others guiltier than sin, but still he'd managed—eventually—to win over the majority of them. So, he just had to follow protocol and lower himself to their level, toss out a genuine smile or two, make a couple of Knock, Knock jokes that even an almost-five-year-old would find ridiculous enough to laugh at, and then convince her that he was one of the good guys.

He was through the doorway before he realized it, with the artificially chilled air in the room slapping him in the face just as harshly as the set of deep, brown eyes began sizing him up. And in that instant, he understood what Lydia meant about face value sometimes being the only proof needed in order to know the truth.

She sat alone in a too-big leather chair, slumped against the table with a cheek wrinkled in the palm of her hand. She had a head full of dark hair, the strands closer to black than brown. It hung to her shoulders, the long bangs tangled in her eyelashes. There was an innate edge to her, a coolness noticeable in her eyes, and her pudgy lips sloped naturally into a frown. But still, he could see Dee Dee in her. The best parts of Dee Dee, he immediately decided.

"Miss Ava Sophia," Lydia announced, pointing a finger at Hunter. "This is another friend of Miss Lydia's. You can call him Mister Hunter."

The little girl didn't move. A long, prolonged blink was the most of an acknowledgment Hunter received from her.

"Tough crowd, I know," Lydia sighed. "But take it from me, don't let her intimidate you. The second she smells fear, you're done for."

Hunter nodded shakily and slipped on his good cop face, complete with a forced, toothy grin and a bob of his eyebrows. He took a step toward the table, the little girl visibly tensing as he moved closer. Two pearl-like teeth peeked out from beneath her upper lip and she bit down into the center of her bottom lip, her head dropping slightly as she watched Hunter advance through upturned eyes.

"I'm Hunter," he said, coming to a stop a safe three-feet away from the chair. He nodded, maintaining his smile even though the corners of his mouth had begun to tremble noticeably. "Can you tell me your name?"

"She said it," she responded coolly, a hand raised and a rigid finger pointed at Lydia. "Besides, Isabel says don't talk to strangers. It's dangerous."

"She's a smart one," Lydia deadpanned from the opposite end of the room. "Don't let her size fool you. I'm pretty sure there's a sixty-year-old attorney trapped inside that little body."

"Well, now. Isabel's right," Hunter agreed, not acknowledging Lydia's remark but staying focused on the set of unblinking eyes that were staring him down. "You shouldn't talk to strangers. But the thing is, I'm not really a stranger. I'm a friend of your mommy's."

She straightened, her nostrils flaring through an exhale.

"And, you know what?" Hunter continued, pushing forward with Lydia's advice first and foremost in his panicked mind—_don't let her see you sweat_. "I know that your mommy is missing you an awful lot. She's been really sad because she hasn't been able to see you."

She flicked a brow upward and continued to stare. Whether unaffected by or disbelieving Hunter's admission, he wasn't sure.

"Told you," Lydia said. "She'll make you work for it. This one's not an easy sell."

Hunter nodded, forcing another smile. "You want to go see your mommy? We can go together, I'll take you to her."

She blinked, dark strands of hair catching in her eyelashes. "Hafta wait for Isabel," she said, sliding her arm off the table and dropping it in her lap. "She said can't go with a stranger. Not _ever_."

"With a stranger, right," Hunter repeated, faking sincerity. "You know, Isabel is right. You should never go anywhere with a stranger. But like I said, I'm not a stranger. Not really. I'm your mommy's friend."

She glared, jutting out her pudgy bottom lip. Slowly, she placed her hands on the arms of the chair, clamping her fingers around them. Hanging on, making it clear that she wouldn't let go without a fight.

Hunter took a step backwards, soaking in the sight of her. Jesus. She was a mini-Dee Dee, the same distrust he'd initially encountered from her at the beginning of the week visible in Avi's eyes. But beneath the skepticism he saw need—raw, in its purest form. What she'd been given throughout her short life wasn't enough for her, although she was too inhibited to admit it, maybe too young to even understand it. But she was beautiful. With her dark hair, perfectly arched brows and soft features blending into her golden-brown complexion. She was how he imagined Dee Dee looking when she'd been the same age. Innocent, still too naïve and sheltered to understand how much hurt and how many lies existed in the world, and that so much of both were responsible for her very existence.

"It's okay," he said, his voice purposely soft. "I promise, everything's going to be okay."

"You don't tell the truth," she accused, stone-faced. "Isabel says lying is a sin."

If Hunter's newest nemesis were even two-feet taller, he'd laugh in her face. Isabel said lying is a sin? He hoped that Ava Sophia Sandoval's blatant naivety was due to her age versus breeding.

"I know you don't tell the truth," she continued. "'Cause Mama don't have any friends."

"I'm her friend," Hunter countered, knowing it was as ridiculous as juvenile to get into a pissing match with someone who hadn't even attended her first day of kindergarten yet. But the knowing didn't really matter to him, only Dee Dee did. And if making himself look ridiculous and juvenile would gain her even a fraction of respect and understanding from the pint-sized Isabel Ramirez, then it was a sacrifice he was willing to make. "In fact, we're good friends. We've been friends for a really long time."

She continued to stare, an eyebrow cocked. "Then how come I never saw you before?"

The can of worms opened with a resounding _pop_. Hunter heard it, and his first instinct was to dig in with both hands and start flinging one piece of truth after another at the aloof child. And then finally, the blame could be handed to its rightful owner.

"Okay," Lydia interjected, clapping her hands together and grabbing both Hunter's and Avi's attention. "I understand the necessity of this little Meet and Greet, and I hate to be the party pooper, but we really should get going."

"I agree with Lydia," Corbin spoke up from his spot at the opposite end of the oblong-shaped table. He glanced down at his wristwatch. "It's been a long day and night for everyone, and aside from needing to get this one moved, I think Ms. McCall has been left on her own long enough. I don't feel comfortable leaving her without protection this long."

Through his peripheral vision, Hunter saw Avi tense and her dark eyes narrow. Instincts screamed at him that Dee Dee had been spot-on when describing her daughter—stubbornness was definitely one of her character traits. Which meant, unfortunately for the rest of them, Avi wouldn't be any easier to convince to leave with him than Dee Dee had been.

"I wanna see Isabel," Avi demanded.

"Not now, Miss Avi," Lydia consoled, a fake smile arcing her lips. "Maybe later, hmm? Right now, you're going to go see your mommy. So, come on." She nodded sideways, motioning toward the door. "Be a good girl, huh, and make this easy for everyone?"

"No," Avi shot back, defiance knotting her expression as she crossed her arms over her chest. "Don't hafta do what you tell me, and don't wanna see Mama. Wanna see _Isabel_."

"Mm-hmm, yeah. Right," Lydia grumbled through a sigh. "You know what, sweet pea? Miss Lydia hasn't closed these old, bloodshot eyes of hers in over twenty-four hours, and I'm afraid she doesn't have a whole lot of patience left. Especially when it comes to little girls who don't want to do what they're told."

"You're a stranger," Avi countered.

"No, I'm with the FBI," Lydia responded, her voice strained with the impatience she'd professed to feeling. "We talked about this, remember? Being with the FBI is just like being a policeman, and policemen are the good guys. Right? It's okay to trust them, so that means it's okay to trust me. And Mr. Hunter here _is_ a policeman, so there's no reason at all not to trust him."

Avi's narrowed eyes shifted upward, targeting Hunter. For what felt like the millionth time in the short time they'd been acquainted, she sized him up. And it was immediately apparent by the snarl of her upper lip that her millionth analysis of him hadn't ended any more favorably than the first one had. "Isabel says I'm 'posed to scream if a stranger tries to take me," she announced calmly. "Loud as I can."

"This isn't getting us anywhere," Corbin grumbled irritably. "We're actually trying to rationalize with a four-year-old?" He shot a glare at Lydia, frowning. "Let's get her out of here, now. And if we have to restrain her to do it, then so be it."

Lydia made her way down the side of the table, hesitance detectable in the slowness of her steps. Coming to a stop alongside Hunter, she nodded toward a still-rigid Avi. "I had the pleasure of spending the entire evening with Miss Congeniality. She's all yours now."

"Thanks," Hunter grumbled under his breath. Kneeling forward, over a glaring Avi, he nodded encouragingly. "Come on now. Let's go—"

Avi jumped down from the chair and stomped backwards, her stiffened arms at her sides and tiny hands fisted. "No!" she growled. "Wanna see Isabel!"

"And we told you not right now," Lydia returned. "Lasso her, Hunter, and do whatever it takes to keep her quiet. We need to make it out of here with as little fanfare as possible." She turned on her heels and headed back across the room. Stopping at the door as Corbin pulled it open, she glanced back and gave Hunter the final 'go' with a nod of her head.

Like she'd promised she would do, as soon as Hunter's arms looped around her waist, Avi let out an earsplitting screech. Wrangling her squirming body against him, he lifted her into the air, trying his best to dodge her flailing legs and tightly clenched hands. One blow landed against the side of his head as a second one pummeled the center of his chest, before he got her situated with her backside flush against his front side and arms immobilized at her sides. He groaned as the heels of her Mary Jane's landed against the fronts of his thighs, _one kick, two, three_… The fourth connection between hard rubber and flesh causing an unintentional, "Damn!" to hiss off of his tongue as he scooted through the doorway a hobbled step behind Lydia and two ahead of Corbin.

"Lemme go!" Avi squealed, shaking her head wildly from side to side before attempting to take out Hunter's nose by throwing it backwards. "Isabel! I want _Isabel_!"

"Shut her up, Hunter!" Corbin barked from the back of the pack. "She can throw a tantrum after we get her out of here!"

Grumbling his disagreement and with Ortiz shooting a glare over her shoulder at him, Hunter tightened his left arm around the wriggling child and brought his right hand up to her mouth. It was wrong, he knew—potentially traumatizing, against everything he'd been taught and improper procedure when dealing with a child—but he slapped his hand over her mouth anyway, cutting off her shrill voice in mid-scream. "Settle down!" he hissed, as the heel of a Mary Jane popped off his left thigh and then right one, the routine consistent and frenzied versus lessening. "No one's going to hurt you! You're safe!"

"Stop here!" Lydia commanded at the end of the third hallway Avi had battered Hunter's thighs down. She nodded at a metal door marked _Exit_. "My car's parked at the back of the lot. I'll go get it, drive back around and get the two of you—"

"Take them now!" Corbin argued. "It'll save time—"

"I'm clear across the lot!" Lydia shot back. "There's no way Hunter is going to make it that far with this one doing her best impersonation of the kid from _The Exorcist_! I'll make better time on my own, then we'll just toss her in the back of my car and go!"

"Can we stop arguing about it and just get the car?" Hunter grunted through two more kicks.

"Agent Ortiz, you're wasting time going by yourself! With as loud as this one has been, someone's bound to have heard her! Get Hunter and her out now!"

"Heard her—at four in the morning?" Lydia shot down Corbin's theory with a roll of her eyes. "Only ones around to hear her are the three underachievers stuck on the nightshift, and trust me, it's their naptime right now. But I take Little Miss Possessed all the way across the lot, she's sure to get us noticed on the security cameras." She turned toward Hunter, her hand on the door. "Be ready to move when I pull up. God willing, we'll actually make it out of here under the radar instead of making it onto every one within a five-mile radius."

Corbin followed her up to the door, growling, "Ortiz!" after her that the slamming of the barrier overpowered. He shot an impatient glance at a rigid and teary-eyed Avi, before turning his attention on Hunter. "She never follows orders," he complained through two more grunts from Hunter. "I hope you realize what she's sacrificed for your old partner, Lieutenant. She's put everything on the line for this case."

"And nothing's been unappreciated," Hunter returned, relaxing cautiously as Avi began to wilt in his arms, her kicks weakening to soft thuds against his legs. He repositioned her, cradling her bottom with his left arm and pushing the side of her head against his chest. "Shh," he whispered, touching his lips against the top of her head. "Everything's going to be okay. I promise. No one's gonna hurt you."

Peeking outside of the square-shaped window in the door, he watched Lydia's shadow move stealthily across the parking lot, weaving in and out of cars, glancing from left to right and then behind her, her pace faster than Hunter had known her to move before. "She's a good agent," he said into the window, but loud enough that Corbin could hear him clearly. "She's helped a lot, and she doesn't deserve to get into any kind of trouble over this. Taking McCall out of here, it was all my idea. I dragged Ortiz into it."

Corbin grunted a laugh. "No one drags Lydia Ortiz into anything. She only knows how to do things one way, and that's her way."

Hunter nodded, unable to disagree, and watched through the window as Lydia yanked open the door to a smaller-make car parked in the last row of the lot. Through the distance and darkness he couldn't determine the car's color, but saw the tiny four-door dip harshly as she dropped her full weight into the driver's side seat.

"Isabel…" Avi whispered against his chest, her breaths hard hiccups that shook her frame. "I…wanna…see…Isabel…"

Hunter ducked his head to deliver another kiss to Avi's scalp, but the soothing gesture was never given. Outside, the sky lit up and the air shook, a deafening blast sending the trio to the floor. The door rattled like it was about to pop free from its hinges, the glass from the window shattering and raining down on the group huddled beneath it. Shoving a screaming Avi against the wall, he grunted a commanding, "Don't move!" and pushed the door open a fraction to peek outside.

At the furthest end of the parking lot, in the last row, a fire blazed.

The tiny four-door lay upside down and was engulfed in flames, resettled twenty feet from where it had been parked when Lydia Ortiz climbed into it.


	19. Chapter 19

**NINETEEN**

He stared at her reflection in the window.

The glow of the dashboard lights played off the darkness outside and tint on the glass, illuminating her face. Within the streaks of light that striped her cheeks, tear tracks were visible.

Dee Dee was slumped to the side, her forehead resting against the window and chin trembling. On the floorboard, between Dee Dee's and his feet, Avi was huddled, with legs drawn up to her chest, arms hooked tightly around her shins, head down and forehead flush against the tops of her knees. When he'd hustled Dee Dee out of the pink house and into the SUV sandwiched in the middle of the five-vehicle caravan, Avi scrambled to the floorboard. Attempts to talk to her had gone ignored and any touches were deflected through flinches and immature whimpers. So eventually, they'd left her alone. Both too exhausted, too devastated and anxious, to put any real energy into soothing her fears.

_"Dee Dee, it's Lydia Ortiz. She's dead."_

When he followed the eight agents into the house and found the living room window open, his heart stopped. They scrambled, searched and screamed, finding Dee Dee doubled up on the kitchen floor with a knife lying to one side of her and the cordless phone on the other side. Looking just like Avi, Hunter instantly realized—drawn into herself, in shock, scared. Resigned to the fact that her life wasn't hers to control.

_"I told you this would happen, but you wouldn't listen. And now it's my fault. Lydia's dead because of me."_

It was the last thing she said to him, whispered guiltily as he cinched the bulletproof vest around her torso. He saw it in her eyes, the belief that she was to blame, the understanding that Lydia's death was more than likely only the first. No one was safe, and he sensed the desire in her to give up, to sacrifice herself and give the win back to the son of a bitch so that no one else would have to face the same, all-inclusive loss that Lydia had.

"It'll be about ten more minutes. When we get there, I need you two to stay in the vehicle with the girl. Once we have the premises secured, we'll move you inside." From the front, passenger's side seat, Riley Porter glanced back at them, and Hunter nodded in response to his directive. "We're going to a hotel in West Miami. It'll be safer, easier to keep secured. One way in, one way out."

Hunter nodded again, shooting a glance at Dee Dee. She blinked, long and drawn-out, but otherwise didn't give any indication that she'd heard what Porter said. She was shutting down on him, he feared. Giving the control back to Elian Sandoval's submissive creation versus continuing to reconstruct the strong-willed woman who'd only just started to find her voice again.

_Had started_.

Until a car bomb silenced both Lydia Ortiz and her.

"This time you'll have around the clock protection," Porter continued. "Two agents will be in the hallway outside of your room, two more will be in the hotel lobby, and another two will run surveillance from the parking lot." He glanced quickly at Dee Dee, wincing unconsciously as he turned his attention back to Hunter. "You'll be safe."

Involuntarily, Hunter grumbled under his breath, swiping a hand over the top of his short hair. "Any word on Stanton's whereabouts?"

Porter pulled in a loud breath, shaking his head. "He hasn't called in, and as far as we can tell, since he left the Federal Building around seven o'clock earlier in the evening, he hasn't been back."

"He has called," Hunter growled. "He called Dee Dee, and he pretty much confessed to killing Ortiz even before she was dead."

"Someone called Dee Dee," Porter countered cautiously. "Come on, Hunter. We all know how dangerous it is to convict based on assumptions instead of solid proof." He raised a hand over the seat, silencing Hunter before he could respond. "No one's discrediting Dee Dee's memories or doubting that this third man from Malibu exists, but we need a positive identification. We can't assume Stanton is this guy just because there are similarities to him in the description Dee Dee gave."

"Positive I.D. my ass," Hunter growled. "Ortiz is _dead_. She was one of your own, doesn't that matter to you?"

"Getting the person responsible for her death is what matters to me," Porter argued. "And when I do get my hands on him, I want to be damn sure he's the _right_ person."

"The right person?" Hunter laughed bitterly. "You've already got him; we both know that. Stanton might be the trained ape, but Elian Sandoval is the son of a bitch who put the hit out on Ortiz. He's responsible for her death."

"Oh, God. Rick…"

The disgust detectable in Dee Dee's voice cut through him, his own voice instantly tangling in his throat as he turned toward her. From the floor, Avi was staring at him; her eyes wide and tear-filled, and she'd begun a slow, methodic rock back and forth. He sank back against the seat, propping an elbow on the door handle and dropping his forehead into his palm. He rubbed his skin, lightly at first and then harder, and harder still. Christ's sake. What was his problem? Once upon a time, Dee Dee had repeatedly accused him of being a loose canon. She worried that too often he acted off impulses instead of rationale. Anger could be a resourceful source of fuel, she'd told him, but too much could be combustible. It could be damaging. And once the damage was done, it wasn't always reversible.

"Avi, sweetie," Dee Dee said, pleaded. "Get off the floor. Come sit by Mama. Please?"

Hunter grimaced, his head still bowed, as he listened for sounds of movement. But all he heard was more anger. Not his own again, but Avi's. Instead of his typical outburst, though, her display came in the form of battering the floorboard with the hard soles of her shoes. He glanced at Dee Dee, although the gesture went unseen by her. She'd returned her gaze outside the window again, her forehead pressed against the glass and tears once again sparking in her eyes.

"Dee Dee," he whispered, only garnering a subtle rise of her eyebrows in response. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have—"

"No, you shouldn't have, and you can't again." She lifted her head, turning toward him. "No matter how you feel about him, he is her father. The time will come when she'll have to know what he's done, and then she'll have to learn how to live with it. But until then…" She shook her head. "She deserves to be a child for as long as she can."

"Yeah, and what about what you don't deserve? Like having to spend the rest of your life looking over your shoulder?"

"For God's sake, doesn't what happened tonight prove to you what he's capable of?" She sighed, her eyelids fluttering tiredly. "Just stop already, please. Stop before someone else gets hurt."

"I can't do that. I can't stop. Because someone else is going to get hurt, and we both know that someone else is going to be you."

"Or you," she shot back impassively. "Or Porter, or any one of the other agents in these cars. All he cares about is getting his point across, not who gets hurt in order for that to happen."

"As long as it isn't you," he responded earnestly. "You're the one who deserves the chance to start living again, and that's what I want you to have. It's what Lydia wanted, too, and why she was willing to put everything on the line just to give the chance back to you." He nodded, Dee Dee's teary stare on him. "So, let's make sure it means something, huh? Everything Lydia gave up, we have to make sure it means something."

**xxx**

Being inside of her bedroom in Coral Gables left her feeling isolated, hidden away from the world. But being inside of the expansive, two-bedroom hotel suite made her feel like she'd been dumped into a fishbowl.

For the most part, the FBI agents had been unobtrusive, knocking on the bolted door only every hour or so to check in. It was how they acted, though, when the door was unbolted and pulled open that made her feel vulnerable and on display. Sticking their heads inside, looking her up and down, glancing around the living room area suspiciously, like they expected to find her doing something wrong. They were angry; she understood that. Just like she understood they were blaming her as much as Elian for Lydia Ortiz's death.

After all, it was her fault.

At least she knew that was what Elian believed.

A soft rustle came from the doorway, and Dee Dee rolled her head atop the pillow to peek. With one arm raised to cup the brass doorknob and a hip cocked to the side, Avi stood staring. Wearing only her white, lace-collared blouse and pink panties, her hair was mussed from sleep and lips puckered in thought. Her brows wrinkled above her dark eyes as she dissected Dee Dee laid out across the bed, the spread still pulled up and her clothes still in tact.

It had been almost seven o'clock in the morning when they'd finally arrived at the hotel, and it had taken close to another hour for the agents to secure the area and sneak them up to the seventeenth floor suite. She'd gotten Avi settled on the sofa, and then she'd roamed. From room to room, looking through closets and cabinets, sifting through the miniature liquor bottles stocked in the wet bar, checking out the television schedule and cable channels, and fiddling with the switch to the electric fireplace—igniting the flames with an upward flick, quelling them with a downward one. She'd felt restless, unsettled, and beyond the locked door of the suite she kept hearing the roar of explosions, one after another after another.

Taking in a breath, Dee Dee stretched her neck in order to glance at the bedside table. Squinting her eyes to focus them, she caught the time on the digital alarm clock. 11:21. It had been after eight in the morning when she'd finally laid down in bed. Avi had been out cold, and even though Hunter refused to go into the second bedroom and get into bed, he'd managed to pass out in the wingback chair nearest the front door.

"You 'wake?"

She lowered her legs over the side of the bed and sat up, dragging a hand through the side of her hair. "I'm awake."

Avi tilted her head to the side, twisting her lips as she continued to stare at her mother. A spiral of hair caught in her eyelashes, fluttering as she blinked, and she took one hesitant step forward before stopping and tightening her hold on the doorknob.

Dee Dee forced a smile. "Its kind of scary being away from home, isn't it?" As Avi responded with a hesitant nod, Dee Dee agreed with a whispered, "Yeah, it is."

Avi hadn't rested well, she knew because she'd watched her toss and turn and kick her legs beneath the blanket spread out over her. She'd wanted to scoop her up, to hold her and rock her, to be enough to her to be able to reassure her. But she hadn't, because she wasn't. So, she'd just watched instead. Keeping her distance, wishing that distance had never been forced between them.

"We getta see Isabel now?"

Dee Dee answered first with a small, honest shake of her head, before saying, "No, sweetie. We don't get to see Isabel."

"Where'd she go?" Avi asked, her brows furrowing more dramatically.

Of course her daughter would question Isabel's absence; of course it would frighten Avi to be without her. Isabel was her only stability, her only consistent source of comfort. It was Dee Dee's absence that didn't seem unusual to Avi, and her presence that left her feeling unsettled. "Well, she…um." Dee Dee climbed to her feet, smoothing the hem of her pink t-shirt around the waistband of her jeans. "Isabel had to leave, Avi. So, you're going to stay with me, okay? I'm going to take care of you."

Questioning instantly filled the dark eyes, and Avi bit down on her plump, bottom lip.

Dee Dee made her way to the door, each of her steps suspiciously tracked. She knelt down in front of her daughter, smiling and sweeping her hand across Avi's forehead to clear away the messy bangs. "I bet you're hungry, huh? Why don't we find out what we have to do to get something to eat around here?"

She twisted her lips again, spiking a brow. "Want waffles. And strawberries."

"Waffles and strawberries, all right."

"Gotta go," Avi announced softly. She dropped her hold on the doorknob and snaked a hand between her legs, beginning to fidget.

"Go. All right," Dee Dee said, climbing back to her feet. She leaned to her left and reached an arm through the bathroom doorway, locating the light switch on the wall and illuminating the room. "Come on, let's go. Hurry."

Instantly, Avi complied, charging past her mother and into the bathroom. Inside the doorway, she hesitated for a moment, looking to her left and then right before shoving her panties beneath her hips and backing up to the toilet. "You gotta go out."

"Oh. Uh, yeah." Dee Dee nodded, backtracking out of the room and pulling the door behind her.

"Everything good in here?"

Dee Dee turned away from the closed door, facing Hunter and nodding.

"How about something to eat?" he asked. "You two hungry?"

"Someone would like waffles," Dee Dee responded. "And strawberries."

"Waffles and strawberries," Hunter grunted under his breath. "Yeah. I'll find out if room service has those on the menu."

As Hunter disappeared from the doorway, Avi pulled the bathroom door open. "After waffles, then we getta see Isabel?" she asked, with expectance in her soft voice.

Dee Dee's shoulders drooped. "Not today, sweetie."

"'Cause the bad guys made her go away?"

"Avi…" Dee Dee whispered, holding out her hand for the taking, only to drop it when the gesture went unaccepted. "Isabel's all right, I promise."

"But they made her go away," Avi argued, her eyes narrowing. "She said no, but the bad guys made her go, anyway. Then she cried."

Dee Dee hadn't thought to ask for details about what happened at the airstrip. What Avi had witnessed, or the chaos she'd been thrown into. At the time, she'd been too focused on relief to care about the rest of it. In her mind, her daughter had been saved, not traumatized, and she hadn't taken the time yet to separate herself from that relief and realize that Avi didn't share her feelings.

Crouching down, she got eye-level with the little girl. "It must've been scary when the policemen came," she said. "Do you want to tell me about it?"

Avi's dark eyes ignited, her lips straightening and tensing. _Screw you_ was the interpretation Dee Dee took from the glare being focused at her, and she couldn't fault Avi for her feelings. Her life had been turned upside down, and Dee Dee understood how that felt and the anger that became so indistinguishably meshed with the process. No matter the reason behind it, it was seen only as unfair when you were the one left trying to right yourself and find your balance again.

"Isabel cried…" Avi whispered. "Lily did, too. 'Cause the bad guys, they forgetted her."

_Lily_. Damn it. Dee Dee had told someone how important she was, hadn't she? At some point while trying to work through the haze of the past week, she was sure that she had. Aside from Isabel, the weathered rag doll was Avi's greatest source of comfort, her constant companion whose importance was obvious by her haggard, loved-too-hard appearance.

"Oh, sweetie," Dee Dee said, dragging a fingertip soothingly down the little girl's arm from elbow to wrist. "I'm sorry."

"I hate the bad guys."

"Dee Dee." Behind Avi, Hunter cleared his throat, his face flushed and stance fidgety. "The agents don't want us to call room service ourselves, so if we, uh. If we want to tell them what we want…" He shrugged faintly, uncomfortably. "We have to give them our order, then they'll get it for us."

"Waffles," Avi hissed, tilting her head back and redirecting her glare upwards at Hunter. "That's what me and Lily always eat at breakfast. Isabel knows that." Hooking her skinny arms over her chest, she spun around, stomping out of the room.

**xxx**

Save for the two stuffed suits on guard duty, the corridor was empty.

Purposely so, Hunter knew. For security reasons, the FBI hadn't been able to give the hotel staff any pertinent information, but they had been able to rent all five suites on the seventeenth floor of the La Palma Hotel.

"Just precautionary, Hunter," Riley Porter explained. "No one feels comfortable taking any unnecessary risks right now."

Hunter nodded, his back shoved protectively against the closed door to Dee Dee's and his suite, blocking Porter from entering. _Unnecessary risks_. It had a double meaning, he knew. First, that none of the stuffed suits—from the top to the bottom slime—were willing to risk losing their star witness. Dee Dee was their ace in the hole, their assurance that Elian Sandoval's life would intentionally be cut short thanks to a lethal dose of poison burning through his veins. And second, a meaning directed specifically at him, to reinforce how clumsily Ortiz and he had acted before—to initiate and pull off their own disappearing act with Dee Dee, without FBI protection, knowing how much power Sandoval still possessed, even behind bars. They'd been stupid, the conclusion was unmistakable in Riley Porter's impatient glare and the intensity in his voice, and Lydia had paid the ultimate price because of it.

_Fool me once, shame on you, but fool me twice, shame on me_. It was the FBI's new philosophy for dealing with Hunter.

"How're they doing?" Porter asked, nodding toward the door that Hunter was guarding.

_How were they doing?_ It was a loaded question Hunter wanted to respond. Shell-shocked was one answer, angry and confused could be two others. Then there was out of their element, uncomfortable, devastated, lost… The adjectives were endless, as were the feelings Dee Dee and her daughter were wrestling with. "Doing their best," he decided to lie. "Won't be long before Avi starts going stir crazy, though."

Porter nodded. "It's not a perfect setup, we all understand that. We're getting some things together—toiletries, clothes for all of you, snacks to have in the room, toys for the little one—"

"A baby doll," Hunter cut in. "She, uh…at the airstrip, her doll got lost."

"A baby doll," Porter deadpanned. "Okay. I'll put that on the list."

"So, what about Stanton?" Hunter dived in, too tired and agitated to wait around for Porter to catch up to where he had gotten stuck. "Anything yet?"

"Not yet," Porter admitted, raising a hand in response to Hunter's impatient reaction. "Every available agent is on this, Hunter. Unofficially, Gideon Stanton is now number one on the Top Ten Most Wanted list."

"How the hell did he get to her, anyway?" Hunter hissed. "Lydia's the only one who knew where she was. She's the only one who knew the phone number to the house—that the house even had a working phone. So, how'd Stanton get his hands on the number?"

Porter shook his head. "Maybe he got into Lydia's office, went through her things. She had to have something written down somewhere. On a contact list, in an address book?"

"Why go to the house?" Hunter pressed. "He got the window open, but as far as Dee Dee knows, he didn't go inside." He scraped the pad of his thumb across his chin, shaking his head. "So, what was the point? He had to have known she was there alone, right? Otherwise he wouldn't have called, let alone shown up."

"Hunter, I don't have any answers for you. All I can do is promise that he won't get that close again."

"Just promise you're going to finally bring the bastard down," Hunter growled. "The past six years he's known exactly where Dee Dee was. He was as responsible as Sandoval for her getting stuck there. You ask me, both the sons of bitches deserve to fry."

"And they will," Porter promised. "Trust me, the FBI doesn't like a dirty agent any more than the LAPD likes a dirty cop. Right now, everyone wants to get their hands on Stanton." He shuffled his feet, burying his hands in the front pockets of his navy blue trousers. "Look. Do us both a favor and lay low right now, okay? I'm not saying… No one's blaming you for what happened to Lydia. But some people…it's been mentioned more than once that…" He shrugged a shoulder, ducking his head with what Hunter interpreted as hesitance to admit the full truth about his rapidly plummeting popularity. "Everyone knows what Lydia was like, just like they know she took this case to heart and worked it hard. But they also know you were her partner in crime, and right now, people are feeling kind of tense. So, do your best to keep a low profile? I'll keep you informed as much as I can, but otherwise—"

"Otherwise take myself out of the loop," Hunter grumbled.

"You never should've been in the loop to begin with," Porter returned. "Bringing you in this deep was Lydia's first mistake."

Hunter stared at him, disbelief discoloring his eyes. "Someone planted a bomb in her car, Porter," he hissed. "You trying to tell me the Feds are going to blame Lydia and me for that? Because if you need a fucking alibi, I can give you one—for Lydia and me both."

"No one's blaming you," Porter shot back quickly. "But the fact that Lydia's dead now because of this case…" He spiked a brow, frowning. "You were both careless. Lydia knew that and so do you. Neither one of you should've taken Dee Dee's safety into your own hands. The two of you alone aren't strong enough to fight someone like Elian Sandoval."

"So, just leave it up to the professionals, right?" Hunter laughed lowly, angrily. "And why's that? You think Dee Dee owes the FBI another six years of her life, is that it?" With another laugh and hard shake of his head, he spun around, knocking his shoulder into Porter's chest to push him back a step. Grabbing hold of the doorknob, he glanced back. "Screw you and screw your FBI misfits. The only one of you worth a damn was Lydia Ortiz, and you can bet I'm going to finish what she started. And that's take care of Dee Dee the way she deserved to be taken care of six years ago."

**xxx**

_"…Federal Bureau Director Anthony Corbin has refused to comment on the current whereabouts of Dee Dee McCall. McCall, a sergeant with the Los Angeles Police Department, went missing over six years ago during a raid on a Los Angeles warehouse owned by John Diego Velasquez. The senior Velasquez was killed in the raid, and it was believed that his son, Oscar Velasquez, was responsible for the Los Angeles detective's disappearance. However, this reporter has learned that Ms. McCall was discovered residing in Coral Gables, Florida, living with John Diego Velasquez's younger—and illegitimate—son, Elian Sandoval. Sandoval is also currently in Federal custody awaiting trial—"_

Dee Dee tossed the remote control onto the coffee table, shooting a glare at Hunter as the television screen went black. "From now on, only cartoons. I don't want to take a chance on Avi hearing any news reports."

Hunter settled back into the corner of the sofa. "We knew the media would be all over the story."

"I don't care what the media says," she snapped, dragging a hand across her forehead. "I only care about what Avi overhears. She's smart enough—"

Hunter chuckled, cutting her off. "You were right, you know. She is like you."

She sank back into her corner of the sofa, pulling her legs up in front of her. "No," she disagreed. "She's like Elian. She has her opinions and she sticks with them, just like he does." She shrugged a shoulder, glancing down the length of the sofa at him. "She isn't anything like me."

He turned to face her, hiking a leg up onto the sofa. "She will be," he assured her. "You have to give it time, Dee Dee. You have to give both of you time."

It felt like time was all she had given—over six years of it to Elian, not to mention the length of her daughter's life. She'd given when it was demanded of her, given when she hadn't wanted to, given and given and then given more. And now it was what Hunter and the FBI expected her to do, too. And damn it, she was tired of always being the one expected to give something up.

"This is…hard," she admitted, tears beginning to shimmer in her eyes. "Being here, out from under Elian, it's all…it's harder than I thought it would be." She blinked, a lone tear dropping onto her cheek. "I don't know if I can do it. I don't even know if I want to." As much as she hated being the one who was always expected to give, she had to admit it was easier being that person. There wasn't any thinking involved, only instructions to follow. And once she'd gotten the hang of it, submission had been simple, really.

"Dee Dee, it's going to get easier. I promise—"

"Don't make promises you can't keep," she returned. "That little girl doesn't even know who I am. To her, Mama is just a word. It doesn't mean anything. Her entire life is Isabel. Avi trusts her, loves her; she wants to be with her. And my life, right or wrong, is Elian." Hunter's expression tensed, and she dropped her gaze, hiding from his disgust. "I know you don't understand it, but sooner or later you're still going to have to accept it." She looked up, resolve having darkened her eyes. "I know how to exist with him. I know what's expected of me, how I'm supposed to act, when I'm supposed to talk, Jesus, even what I'm supposed to wear every day. But out here…on my own…" She shook her head, begging Hunter to understand, needing him to. "I don't know who I'm supposed to be."

"You just have to be you," he answered simply, tearfully.

_Her_. Hunter made it sound so easy, like an effortless transition. But what he didn't understand was how much effort she'd had to put into becoming _this_ her, and this her, she knew, wasn't the one Hunter wanted. He wanted the Dee Dee that was described in case files and talked about in the media, the ballsy cop with a rebellious nature and screw you attitude. That Dee Dee had been afraid, too, but she'd been even more afraid of anyone else finding out her secret, and so she always came out of the gate swinging. But this Dee Dee rarely ever managed to make it out with a whimper.

She took in a breath, swallowing the remainder of her tears. "I'm going to refuse to testify against Elian. I'm his wife; they can't force me to do it."

Like she'd expected, Hunter's face drained of color, although emotions instantly began to rage in his eyes. He stared at her, looking dumbfounded, his eyes nothing more than slits and mouth gaping.

"It'll save lives," she continued, her voice strengthening, although, inside, her resolve was barely managing to hang on by a thread. "Lydia was killed because of me, to be _my_ reminder of what my place is and who has the control. And it worked. I remember; I know my place."

"Your…" Hunter only managed to stammer the word before incredulity stole his voice. He shook his head, hard, anger winning out over the other emotions swirling in his eyes.

"This isn't your decision to make, it's mine," Dee Dee said. Knowing she had to keep going; she had to get it out in one, hopefully believable gush. Otherwise, she wouldn't be able to do it, and she wanted to. Because even if the unfamiliar strength she was feeling lasted for only a minute or two, it was the closest she would ever come to feeling as if she could become Hunter's Dee Dee again—the old McCall. "I want to talk to Anthony Corbin. I want to ask him to drop the charges against Isabel. I don't want her in prison. I want her to be with Avi. She needs her."

"She needs—" Hunter jumped to his feet, towering over her with his arms trembling at his sides. "Where the hell is this coming from?"

With his outburst, she instinctively flinched. Bringing her hands up to shield her face and balling tighter, she waited for what she'd learned to expect would follow defiance. And in her mind, she felt the blows. Sharp smacks to the sides of her head, a backhand across the face, a kick to the ribs, she felt each one of them again and again, over and over, until she was unable to stop herself from crying out.

"Oh…God…"

At the sound of Hunter's voice, she lowered her hands shakily. The anger was gone from his eyes, disgust once again replacing it. His knees began to buckle and he stumbled backwards, dropping down onto the edge of the coffee table and sinking his head into his hands.

Dee Dee raised a hand to her mouth, trying to muffle the sobs that there was no way to stifle any longer. They'd gotten too persistent, burning her stomach, pounding at her chest and scratching her throat. She thought she'd buried them deep enough that they'd never find a way out; she'd tried to, at least. To hide them away with memories and wants and wishes where they would die and rot alongside Hunter's Dee Dee. Forgetting was less painful than remembering, she'd convinced herself, just like she'd begun to believe that submitting was easier than fighting. But she'd been wrong. Because they were parts of herself that she'd never wanted to give up, she just hadn't known how to be stronger than the fear in order to hold onto them. And now, she didn't know how to even begin to get them back.

Hunter shook his head, groaning into his palms. "This is…it's what…" He looked up, his eyes reddened, tear-filled. "This is really what you want? _This_? It's who you want your daughter to think you are?"

She shook her head, small, faint. "I'm…sorry…" she choked.

He jumped to his feet, but she didn't cower again, she didn't flinch. "Don't tell me you're sorry!" he hissed. "Tell me you're ready to fight the son of a bitch! Tell me you're ready to take your life back from him!"

"I don't have anything to take back!"

"The hell you don't!" He aimed a rigid finger in the direction of her closed, bedroom door. "You ask me, the most important thing is asleep in that room! And you think she doesn't understand now? Well, how the hell do you think she's going to feel five years from now—ten years from now—when she is old enough to understand? When she finally gets it, that Mama thought it was just too damned hard to fight for her so she took the easy way out and gave up?" He spun a full circle, tilting his head back and growling into the air. Coming to a stop facing her again, he ignored her tears, her fear and confusion. Instead, like he claimed to need her so badly to do, he continued fighting. "And don't you dare use Lydia Ortiz as your excuse again! Damn it! Don't you _dare_! Because you know what? She knew all of the risks, but that didn't stop her! She went down fighting—fighting for _you_! She never once used 'it being too hard' as an excuse to quit, so don't you use it, either! You owe her a hell of a lot more than that!"

"I don't want to quit!" she screamed, her admission shocking both of them into silence.

_She didn't want to quit_.

Not again. But she needed someone to tell her how to fight instead of just telling her it was what she needed to do.

"Then don't!" Hunter growled. "_Don't!_ You're so worried about saving lives, then save the ones you can—your daughter's and yours!"

"You're being mean."

With a groan, Dee Dee patted her cheeks, drying her tears, and turned to look in the direction of the tiny voice. The bedroom door was open, Avi glaring down Hunter. And she understood then, sickeningly, looking into her daughter's expectant face that Hunter's and hers weren't the first screams she'd heard during her short life. Whether or not she wanted to pretend Avi had been sheltered from the violence that formed the foundation of the big house in Coral Gables, she hadn't been. Maybe doors had been closed, one even locked, but that hadn't been enough to stop the anger and fear and disgust from gaining entry into every room.

"You're like Papa," Avi announced, eerily matter of fact. "When Mama's bad, he talks loud, too."

Hunter dropped down onto the coffee table again, sighing, deflating. "Mama's not…bad."

"Isabel says she is," Avi remarked offhandedly. "That's why she hasta do timeouts."

"Well, Isabel's wrong," Hunter responded, before countering Dee Dee's whispered plea of "Rick, don't," with a gruff, "No…_no_. You don't want to quit? Then prove it. Prove it to _her_."

"How?" she hissed. "By arguing with her? My God, she's four-years-old!"

"No, by sticking up for yourself for once." He pointed at the doorway again, at the tiny figure standing stoically and attentively inside of it. "Look at her, Dee Dee." he commanded. "_Look at her._ She's here, with you—just _you_. You're the only one calling the shots, and no matter what you say or do—no matter how many lies you expose—no one can take her away from you. There're no more timeouts. No matter what you do, she's still going to be here in five minutes, in ten, tomorrow and every day after that."

"You don't know that," she argued. "You don't know _him_. Look at what he's already done—"

"Stop it!" Hunter bellowed, the ferocity of his voice causing his two-member audience to startle markedly. "Stop using _him_ as an excuse, too! You spent your entire life facing down bastards, so what makes this one so scary to you? What makes him so fucking unbeatable in your head?"

Before she realized it, Dee Dee found herself air born. Up and off the sofa, landing with a thud that rattled the room, her body shaking and rigid hand connecting with the side of Hunter's face. "Because he _is_ unbeatable, you son of a bitch!" she seethed. "Don't you think I tried to beat him? Don't you think I fucking _tried_? I fought and fought and fucking fought until I didn't have anything left in me! He took everything—_everything_! And the only thing he gave me in return I never wanted!"

The sound instantly silenced her tirade, cutting through her. She turned slowly, back toward the bedroom doorway, guilt swimming in her eyes. Flush-faced, with her own tears streaming down her cheeks, Avi stared down at the floor, at the fresh puddle between her legs.

"Oh…God…" Dee Dee moaned, closing her eyes, unable to keep looking at the horror on her daughter's face. The horror she was responsible for—only her. "Get her away from me, Hunter. For God's sake, keep me away from her."

Avi's mortified cries coincided with Dee Dee's devastated ones. She shook her head, slapping a hand over her mouth, feeling her stomach roll into her throat. Charging across the room, she slammed herself inside the second bedroom, locking herself in. Wishing there was a lock on the outside of the door only so the choice of whether or not she ever left again wouldn't be forced on her to make.

**xxx**

"Is she okay?"

Hunter crossed the living room, reaching the wet bar and making a quick turn, starting off again in the opposite direction. He dragged his hand through the top of his hair, shooting a sideways glance at the sofa as he stomped past it. Huddled in the corner of the structure, Avi let loose a formidable wail, causing him to cringe and hiss a slew of curse words into the telephone receiver.

"Rick? Do you think—"

"I don't know if she's okay," he grumbled over the line at Mallory, as he turned and headed across the room again, for the countless time. "She's been crying for over an hour now. Won't eat, won't…just keeps saying she wants Isabel. Or her doll. She wants a damned doll, and Porter forgot to bring her one."

"Well, uh." Mallory's breath echoed across the line. "What about a story? Um. How about _Goodnight, Moon?_ You know it?"

"Know it?" Hunter groused, shaking his head. "I've never even heard of it." He slowed his pace cautiously, as Avi's cries began to soften, morphing into hiccupped whimpers. Her body was slicked with sweat, her face a drenched mess of tears and snot. Almost two straight hours of a tantrum had worn them both out, and even though he sensed that she wasn't ready to throw in the towel just yet, she was getting close. He just had to wait it out a little longer and—God willing—she would drop before he did.

"Can you tell them to go get a doll?" Mallory half-asked, half-demanded.

"Funny thing about the Feds," Hunter responded dryly, "when it comes down to choosing between keeping the kid alive or replacing her baby doll, they keep going with the living thing." Facing the closed door to the second bedroom, he tried to feel angry. He wanted to feel angry, damn it. Angry at Dee Dee, at the insecurities that were now such a large part of her, and her willingness to run away versus charge forward in spite of the odds, like she used to do.

To hell with trying to be angry, he _was_ angry.

"Try to understand, Rick," Mallory lectured. "With both of them. Their lives have been turned upside down, everything they know is gone. And for Dee Dee…having a child…" She sighed, making it clear that she felt far sorrier for Dee Dee than angry with her, like Hunter obviously was. "With someone like that—like Sandoval? And under those circumstances?"

"She always wanted kids," he argued. Although it was a heartless point to make, he knew, and understood just how heartless it was by the moan Mallory retaliated with.

"Wanting kids and…" She exhaled loudly, the breath echoing across the line. "Are you listening to yourself? Because if you're actually saying the things you are, I don't even want to know what you're thinking. For God's sake—"

"It was stupid," he conceded, coming to a stop at the wet bar, his back to a still whimpering Avi. He dropped his elbows down on the polished top, sinking his head into his hands. _This is harder that it was supposed to be_, he wanted to admit, but couldn't. It had always been Mallory who'd lectured him about expectations. That he expected too much. Even if by some miracle Dee Dee returned one day, she'd always said, who did he expect to come back? And each time she tried so insightfully to warn him, he'd shot her down, chosen to ignore her and chalked her cautiousness up to jealousy.

Jesus. He was an idiot.

"Tell me where you are," Mallory urged. "I can come to you, help you. At least until, I don't know. Dee Dee's back on her feet, or—"

"Back on her feet?" He chuckled lowly, with disagreement. Mallory was being optimistic, believing that at any point since being dragged out of the house in Coral Gables Dee Dee had actually had her footing under her. "I can't tell you where we are, you know that."

"But I could help."

"You could get hurt. Or…" He grimaced, his eyes closing. "Worse. Think about Ortiz, huh? I don't want anything happening to you."

"I don't want anything to happen to you, either. So, maybe this is…the little girl…maybe she's some kind of, I don't know. A sign or something." She paused, hesitating. "Your intentions are good, Rick, no one will argue that. But you're in over your head. The trauma Dee Dee has been through, what she needs now… You're not trained to help her the way she needs helped. Maybe it's time to let a professional take over?"

"Give up on her, you mean," he said, before shooting down Mallory's suggestion with a hard shake of his head. "I won't do that again. I promised her I wouldn't."

"You're being unrealistic, not to mention unfair. And I don't mean just to you and me. I mean to Dee Dee. She needs help, Rick, if there's any hope of her ever living a normal life again. And the truth is, you're not the help that she needs. No matter how much you want to be."

"…Juice…"

Hunter lifted his head slowly, swiping a hand across his forehead as he turned toward the red-faced little girl crumpled on the sofa.

"Apple juice is my bestest," Avi added, her revelation punctuated with hiccups.

"Juice…" Hunter repeated, his suspicious stare shifting between a teary-eyed Avi and the cordless phone. "Look it, Mal. I need to get off here. We've been on too long as it is. And besides that, there might actually be a break through happening here."

Mallory sighed heavily, in concession. "Think about what I said. Please? This isn't six years ago. Dee Dee isn't who she was then, and you aren't who she needs now. So, don't keep fighting so hard. You've done all you can for her, even more than anyone expected you to do."

He fought down a swallow, his grip tightening around the telephone. "Don't push this, Mal," he said, his tone absent of anger but weighted by exhaustion. "I can't…she's not ready."

"She's not, or you're not?"

"What's that mean?"

"It means you have a decision to make," Mallory answered, matter of fact. "When the time is right, are you going to be able to let go of Dee Dee? Because I told you before, our marriage won't be between the three of us. I'm only in love with you, I just feel sorry for her. But not so sorry that I'm willing to give up my life for her or share it with her."

"You really think that's fair? Considering?"

"No," she answered honestly. "Especially considering, I don't think it's fair at all."

Hunter bit off the rest of his argument as the line went dead. He pulled the telephone away from his ear, glaring at it as he poked the tip of his finger against the disconnect button and then dropped the handset on top of the bar. Taking in a breath, he flattened his palms on top of the counter and pushed off, turning around to face Avi. "Apple juice?" he asked, and then confirmed with a sturdy nod. "Well, now. They have to have juice around here somewhere, right?" As she nodded through a stilted breath, he headed to the door, unbolting the barrier and yanking it open.

"Lieutenant Hunter," the lighter-haired out of the two stuffed suits manning the hallway said as Hunter peeked out around the door's edge. "Having a nice night, sir?" A smile quivered on his pencil-thin lips, taunting and sarcastic, as across the hall the other stuffed suit tried to stifle his laugh.

"Yeah. Just terrific so far, thanks," Hunter reproached. "Apple juice. Find some. And as you've obviously heard, we needed it a couple of hours ago." Letting a smirk serve as both his 'thank you' and 'goodbye,' he gave the door a shove closed and turned back toward Avi, jutting his thumb behind him. "Apple juice. The policemen are going to get us some."

Avi sniffled, her shoulders rising and then drooping. "We got movies here?" she asked, crisscrossing her skinny legs in front of her. "I wanna watch _Cinderella_."

Hunter nodded, before motioning toward the bedroom. "It's getting late. Why don't we put it on in the bedroom, rest while we watch it?"

Avi twisted her lips to the side, contemplating his suggestion. Slowly, her eyes shifted to the open bedroom door, before making a quick trek across the room to the closed door that her mother was hidden behind. "Think Mama wants to watch, too? Maybe she never saw _Cinderella_ before."

Hunter's gaze landed on the closed door for what felt like the thousandth time, and he shot down Avi's idea with a shake of his head. "I, uh. I think she's pretty tired. Maybe we should let her rest some more?"

"Mama always rests lots."

"Yeah, I know. But maybe if we let her rest tonight, she won't feel so tired tomorrow." He shrugged a shoulder in the direction of the bedroom. "Why don't we go see what movies the policemen brought for us to watch? Hopefully, they did a better job picking those than they did baby dolls."

"Hope so," Avi agreed, scooting to the edge of the sofa and then dropping down onto flat feet. "'Cause them policemen don't know how to pick good babies at all."


	20. Chapter 20

**TWENTY**

She was used to the quiet.

She'd learned how to subsist with it.

Dee Dee made her way through the deserted living room of the suite, coming to a stop at the bedroom doorway. She peeked between the jamb and edge of the partially open barrier, her stare falling on the two figures on the bed. Avi lay on her stomach at the foot, her head pointing toward one corner and tiny ankles crossed with her feet pointing toward the opposite corner. At the head of the bed, Hunter's head was crooked against the headboard; his ankles also crossed and hands stacked over his chest.

They looked peaceful, both of them.

And she found herself envying them.

Turning away from the doorway, she headed back across the room, her newest target the wet bar. Stepping around the structure, she took a survey of the multitude of miniature bottles that lined the upper of the two shelves. Bourbon. Vodka. Gin. Schnapps. Even a couple, tiny bottles of wine—both white and red.

But no brandy. There wasn't a single bottle of brandy.

_"Drunkenness is embraced only by the unsophisticated, Dee Dee,"_ she heard Elian lecture, as she pulled a bottle of _Jack Daniels_ out of the middle of the generous grouping. _"Commoners find some sort of delight in it, but the cultured understand it's nothing more than a sign of inferiority."_

Inferiority.

Jesus. The past six years had taught her to despise that word.

Unscrewing the tin cap, she lifted the bottle and tilted her head back, draining half of its contents in one gulp. She coughed, her eyes watering and throat on fire, but she took another drink anyway, and another. Groaning, she slapped the glass bottom base onto the top of the bar and tightened her fingers around the polished edge, taking a minute to catch her breath and let the burn from the alcohol subside. _Screw being common and inferior and weak and less than—screw Elian_. Maybe in some twisted way she needed him, but she didn't want him.

She hated him.

She just wasn't brave enough to admit it.

Without looking, she grabbed a second bottle from beneath the bar. _Smirnoff_. She didn't have a reason to be picky only a goal to achieve, so she undid the cap and took a swig. The vodka burned its way down just as intensely as the _Jack_ had, but still, she finished it off in four swallows.

The alcohol was warming both her mind and body, just a slow simmer. It felt good being on the verge of drunkenness. Oddly, it made her feel like _her_ again. Not that she'd ever overindulged, not really—not intentionally, for the most part. But a good drunk was something she hadn't realized until that moment how much she'd missed. Just letting go, giving in, allowing her mind to forget everything—even if it was only for a little while—that, on a regular day, seemed impossible to ever be able to forget.

She pulled a bottle of _Maker's Mark_ out from under the countertop, clanking it noisily against two other bottles. Cradling the pint-sized container in her hand, she surveyed it through narrowed eyes before taking a drink. She gulped once, twice, her eyes scrunched closed as the liquid inferno raged inside of her. She wanted to get drunk—to be drunk. She wanted the alcohol to help her become someone else, someone she might actually like being. It didn't have to be the old her, she didn't care about being that her anymore. She just wanted to be someone who was whole and undamaged and not so damned cynical.

The suddenness of the footsteps startled her, even though they were soft—bare feet atop thick carpet. Hurrying backwards a step, she opened her eyes, the nearly empty bottle of _Maker's Mark_ slipping out of her hand. It dropped to the floor, what little liquid was left inside rolling up the bottleneck and splattering the tops of her feet. She instantly chomped down on her bottom lip, apprehension widening her eyes as Hunter continued toward her. "I'm, uh. I'm…sorry…" she whispered, Hunter coming to a hesitant stop on the opposite side of the bar. "I didn't mean…to..." She glanced down at her splattered feet, shaking her head. Apologizing was nothing more than a mechanical process. Something she did without thought and rarely because she felt particularly sorry or regretful about the things Elian thought she should feel sorry and regretful about.

"Just a spill," Hunter responded, shrugging. "Nothing that can't be cleaned up." He craned his neck and glanced down at the floor on her side of the bar, shrugging again. "I'll grab a towel out of the bathroom—"

"No," she said quickly, once again reflexively. "I'll do it. It's my mess, I should do it."

"It was an accident," Hunter said lowly, matter of fact. "Accidents happen." Leaning against the bar, he peeked over the far edge to Dee Dee's side of the floor again. Both sets of eyes lowered, and together they took in the mess around her feet.

Dee Dee's gaze rose tentatively, just a second before Hunter's. Continuing to watch him, she reached under the countertop and blindly retrieved another bottle, placing it between them on the bar.

"That help?" Hunter asked, his stare switching from the bottle back to her. "You do it a lot?"

"I'm doing it right now," she answered defiantly, twisting the cap off the bottle.

He nodded, not seeming in the mood to either agree or disagree with her about whether or not it was a good idea. Instead, he watched her for a minute as she fought down the bourbon with the same conviction she had the other drinks. "Does he do it a lot?" he finally asked, once the newest empty bottle was slammed down on the top of the bar

She shook her head. "Who? Do what?"

"Sandoval," he responded simply, like at that particular moment Elian had temporarily stepped out of the role of elephant in the room. "Does he hit you a lot?"

Her breath caught, the alcohol haze she'd just been beginning to enjoy suddenly not feeling as potent. She licked her lips nervously, not having an answer for him.

"It's not your fault," Hunter continued. "It's never been your fault. Only the son of a bitch is responsible. You know that, don't you?"

She backed up to the wall, handing it the task of supporting her. Hugging her arms to her chest, she thought over his question, tried to find an answer for it. Of course she believed that Elian was to blame—for all of it, everything. _She believed it_. But some of it, portions of it… She blinked, a tendril of hair catching in her eyelashes.

"You didn't deserve any of it, Dee Dee," Hunter said, as if privy to her inner debate. "The things that happened to you, they were Sandoval's fault, not yours. You aren't to blame."

She saw conviction in his eyes, what she wanted to think was belief in her. It was thick and strong and unmistakable, and seeing it made her feel as warm as the alcohol was. She acknowledged his belief with a hesitant nod, swiping her long bangs away from her eyes. Maybe she didn't believe it as strongly as Hunter seemed to, but she wanted him to know that she hoped, eventually, she could. "I did fight. At first," she admitted through a whisper, her gaze dropping to her bare feet. "He would hit me, you know, and I would hit back. But then he would hit harder." She smiled sadly, fleetingly. "No matter what I did, he was always stronger, better prepared. And so I…after a while, you know…I just…I…stopped. And I did it because it was easier, not because it was what I wanted to do. I didn't want to give up. I just couldn't figure out how to beat him."

Hunter nodded faintly, with understanding. "That's because there wasn't a way to beat him then. But now…" He raised his brows. "Now, there is a way."

_Testify_, she silently interpreted, her own brows arching lazily. Pushing off the wall, she barreled up to the bar, scooping two bottles off the shelf before landing against the structure. She slammed down a bottle of _Smirnoff_ in front of Hunter and _Jack Daniels_ in front of herself, nodding firmly. "You drinking with me, or do I keep drinking alone?"

Hunter's gaze flitted to the two empty bottles on the countertop, before landing on the newest, full ones, and he studied all four for a moment before shrugging and snapping up the vodka. "We drinking to anything in particular?" he asked, unscrewing the cap. "Or is this a just-for-the-hell-of-it occasion?"

Dee Dee smiled, a cock of her brow her only response as she raised her bottle in a mock toast and then took a drink, squinting through a swallow. Swirling the container in her hand, her smile held as Hunter followed her lead and took a swig of the vodka. She chuckled softly as he groaned through the customary burn, and then licked the residue of bourbon off her bottom lip. "The reason is," she began, as he slammed his half-empty bottle down on the bar top, "because I can. That's always been Elian's reason, too. His reason for hitting me, for…doing…" She sighed. "Whatever the hell he wants. It's the only reason he's ever needed—because he can."

"Could," Hunter corrected. "Start talking about the bastard in the past tense, because that's where he is now—in the past."

She shook her head, disagreeing. Whether or not Elian was sent to prison for the rest of his life, or he took pity on her and allowed her to live what remained of hers, he would always be her present. He occupied her mind—her thoughts, dreams—and she knew he would never relinquish that control over her. He'd worked too hard to take it from her, and as she'd tried to warn Hunter from the beginning, Elian never willingly let go of what was his. But instead of arguing what seemed to be obvious only to her, she nodded toward the bedroom on the other side of the room. "You looked comfortable," she said, a tinge of the envy she'd felt noticeable in her voice. "I heard Avi crying earlier. I'm, uh. I'm sorry that I…that I…didn't—"

"The doll," Hunter broke in. "That's what she was upset about."

"Lily."

He nodded. "I told Porter to bring her a new one, but guess he forgot. In the end, she settled for a bottle of apple juice and watching some movie about a princess—twice." He grinned crookedly, warmly. "She's a good kid, Dee Dee."

She shrugged, twirling the bottle on top of the bar. "Yeah. She is."

"She's smart, like you."

_Like her_, it was a comparison Dee Dee didn't feel comfortable making. With her daughter there were obvious physical similarities to her, she saw them like everyone else seemed to. But other than the physical, she'd never found much of herself in Avi. What she did recognize in her were parts of Isabel, subtle hints of Elian, but never anything that reminded her of herself, that gave her reassurance that, other than in the most simplistic form, Avi and she actually shared a connection. "I used to think about it a lot, you know?" she admitted, somewhat shyly, even more drunkenly. "Getting married again, having a family." She flashed a smile, one marked by embarrassment. "A girl and a boy, that's what I wanted. Grace and Joshua."

"Nice names," Hunter said with an approving nod.

Her smile held for a second longer, before her expression transformed into an all too familiar look of impassiveness. "Avi is named after Elian's mother."

"Well, now. The way I see it, in the big picture, a name doesn't really mean anything."

"Yes, it does," she disagreed. "Your name is supposed to have thought behind it, you know? It's supposed to mean _something_. I mean, it's the first thing that's really yours in life. It's the one thing that stays with you throughout your life. And it should…it should mean…something." She shrugged, her stare targeting the bottle. "Something good, at least."

"You have a great kid, Dee Dee," Hunter returned sternly. "What you call her doesn't matter, who she is does."

She laughed softly, tearfully. "I want to feel like she's mine," she whispered, through a shake of her head. "I want that…God, more than anything. But that's not who he's ever let her be. He forced me to have her just so he could take her away from me." She glanced up at him, her eyes darkened, unreadable. "I don't know what I did to make him hate me so much. I mean, I…before, I never even knew he existed. I…I never—"

"Someone like Sandoval doesn't need a reason to hurt," Hunter cut in. "It's just in him to do it. But you aren't to blame, honey—_you_ aren't to blame."

"Then…why?" A sob caught in her throat, low and guttural, and she gave the bottle a shove that sent it sailing across the top of the bar. "Six years. The son of a bitch—for _six_ _years_."

Jesus. She was angry.

Full of rage.

Reaching beneath the bar, she swept her arm over the neatly arranged rows of bottles, sending them scattering. Some toppled onto their sides, others dropped to the floor around her feet, and a few unlucky ones cracked and splintered.

On the other side of the structure, Hunter remained still, watching her tirade but not doing anything to stop it. She scooped up a bottle of gin and hurled it past his head, but he didn't blink, and she targeted a bottle of whiskey on the floor and gave it a kick that sent it slamming into and shattering against the wall, but still, he didn't even flinch.

He let her fight her demon. Not alone, but on her own.

"I hate him!" she sobbed, chucking bottles with both hands. "I _hate_ him! I want him dead! I want him—" Her stare caught Hunter's tear-filled one. "No. No, I want him locked up. I want him behind a door that only opens when someone else opens it. I want every fucking day he has left to be on someone else's schedule—when he eats, sleeps, when he gets to feel the fucking sunlight. I want him to only be able to wear what someone else tells him to wear. I want his life ripped apart—ripped out from under him. I want…I, I…I…want…" She collapsed, falling into the wall, letting it guide her to the floor. With her legs pulled up in front of her and hands fisted around two more bottles, she continued to cry. For the first time feeling free enough to show her anger, make it felt and known.

_She felt free_.

She just didn't know any longer how to co-exist with freedom.

**xxx**

She had collapsed. Spent.

She hadn't gotten rid of all of her tears, but she'd cried herself to the point of exhaustion, and once she had, he'd climbed onto the floor beside her. Sliding an arm across her shoulders and pulling her into him, he'd held her.

And for the first time, she'd let him.

He told her that she had every right to be angry, that he was angry, too. And when her tears reemerged, he cried with her.

It wasn't fair, he told her. None of it was fair. And then he promised that the child who didn't feel like hers would feel that way one day. He told her that he believed in her—to heal, to be whole again, and in her ability to become the type of mother she'd always dreamed of being. He knew she could do it, and he would help her. He wouldn't let her down again.

He wouldn't let her down.

"God. This is hard."

Her voice was broken, and Hunter knew her words were as painful as honest. _It was hard_. Getting her back, convincing her to come back, to stay, convincing himself to stand by her when pushing him away was what she seemed to want to do most.

"Let me help you."

He didn't know if he could, but he wanted to.

He owed it to her.

"I'm not afraid of him killing me," she said, her admission cutting through him. "I've lived with the hope of him doing that for so long it's become a part of my life. Wondering when it would finally happen, each day waking up and wondering if that day would be the day. Sometimes, a lot of times, I wished it would be."

"I'm sorry, honey."

"For what?"

He hugged her closer, tighter. "For feeling thankful that day never came." It was selfish, he knew—to feel thankful that she had survived, that she'd lived through one more day of pain, fear, humiliation, sadness, hatred… _It was selfish_. But it was also how he felt, and, God help him, he couldn't deny it. "He's going to pay, Dee Dee," he assured her, because at that moment reassurances of what he hoped would happen were all he had to give her.

She slid her head over his shoulder, sniffling. "In the beginning, you know, I…I guess, in a way, I understood it. I mean, with Oscar, it was because of his father, and I understood that. But then with Elian…" She sniffled again, running a hand under her nose. "It didn't have anything to do with me. It was just…him. And I kept asking him, why? And he would talk about being wasteful, and his father, and…none of it made sense."

_Why?_ It had been what Hunter had wanted to know, too, at one point it had been the only thing he'd wanted to know.

Why her, why them?

"He said I was attractive," she continued, her breath warming his chest, the feel of it, realization of it, warming him. "But he didn't…want…me. I was a luxury not a necessity, as easy to get rid of as to keep—that's what he said. But he would never get rid of me. No matter how hard I pushed him, he wouldn't do it."

Hunter swallowed hard. _The son of a bitch_.

"And I did push him," she said. "At first, I pushed hard."

A smile trembled across Hunter's lips, one fueled by pride. His McCall would have pushed. She wouldn't have given into the bastard without a fight.

"I didn't want to let him break me, but I…think…" She sighed against his shoulder. "Maybe he did."

He raised a hand, cupping the side of her face. Her skin felt tight from her tears, her lips were in a frown. "Not forever," he promised.

"What if it is forever? From here on out, no matter what else happens, you know, what he's done will always be a part of me."

She was right. Jesus. He knew that she was, and knowing it broke his heart a little more.

"He gives me books to read," she said. "They're always crime stories, mysteries. Usually, the main character is a cop, a woman." Her impromptu smile wrinkled his shirt. "At first, in the beginning, I tried to see myself in them, in the characters. And if she had a partner, I pretended they were us. Sometimes it helped."

_Sometimes it helped_. Only sometimes, not every time, not any time that would have made a difference. Hunter closed his eyes, breathing in her scent as the material eased across his shoulder with the fade of her smile.

"After, who'd you work with?" she asked, the question presented innocently not with any type of intent or blame behind it. "You got a new partner, right? Charlie would've had to assign you one. Was it Mallory?"

"Uh." He cleared his throat. "Yeah. Most of the time, it's been Mallory."

She nodded. "Good. Both Charlie and you said she's a good cop, and you need someone like that to have your back."

_It's never been the same as you having my back_, Hunter wanted to argue. But he didn't, because it was just one more wish that had long ago become moot for both of them.

"And you're a Lieutenant now?"

"I'm a… Yeah."

"You earned it," she responded assuredly. "So? Ever think of retiring?"

He glanced down sideways, catching a glimpse of the top of her head_. Couldn't_, he thought about answering, _because you_ _wouldn't let me_. And it was the truth, no matter which way he dissected it. Whenever the idea of retirement either entered his mind of its own accord or was pushed on him by someone else's, he always dismissed it. Not because he didn't think it was a good idea necessarily, but because somewhere deep inside of him Dee Dee would remind him that it wasn't time yet.

Not the right time for him, or for her.

Indisputably, always, she would remind him that there was work they had to finish.

"You never know," he answered. "Maybe I'll start thinking about it."

She lifted her head off his shoulder, cool air replacing the warmth she had generated, and leaned back against the wall. Remaining close, their shoulders touching. "All those books Elian gives me to read? I made up a game with them a long time ago. I read half the book and then try to figure out on my own who did it. I write it all down, you know, the motive, the where, when and how. And once I think I have it figured out, then I read the rest." She glanced at him, her eyebrows raised. "Most of the time, I don't do too bad. Solve more than I don't."

"Art imitating life?" he asked, grinning.

She took in a breath, shrugging. "Or just trying to hold onto some part of me."

"You were a good cop, Dee Dee."

"I tried to be."

"You were. We were a good team."

She turned toward him, her stare locking with his. But she didn't smile; she didn't reveal any emotions. She merely stared. Like she was beginning to remember things about him that up until that very moment had remained forgotten. "I want Elian to go to prison," she said, unblinking, still impassive. "But I know that even if he spends the rest of his life behind bars, I won't be safe. It's his way, Rick, and I know that." Sternness filled her eyes, belief. "Before I can testify, I need to know things are settled, that they're taken care of."

She had a plan; he could see it in her as well as sense it. While he'd believed that she was crumbling, she'd actually been rebuilding her strength.

"I'm not afraid of him killing me," she reiterated, "but what does scare me is the thought of Avi being left alone. Good or bad, I'm all she has left, and if something happens to me…" Her stare intensified, cutting through him. "She deserves to be happy, to have a normal life, and she'll never have that in foster care. She needs to be with someone she feels safe with and trusts."

_Shit_. Hunter felt his jaw tighten, Dee Dee's demand blaring at him from all directions even though she hadn't yet found the words to actually say it.

"I trust you," she continued. "I trust you, Rick, and I can tell she's starting to trust you, also."

He sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face. _Christ_. Had she forgotten that he hadn't been brave enough to attempt fatherhood for himself? But still, she wanted him to promise that he would give it an honest try with her child?

"It's asking a lot," she said. "I know it is, but I need to do this. For once I need to actually act like her mother and take care of her."

"Dee Dee—"

"No. Don't tell me I don't know what I'm talking about. This isn't a fairytale, all right, and more than likely I'm not going to get a happily ever after ending. I understand that; I accepted it a long time ago. And now you have to accept it, too. I _need_ you to accept it."

Desperation filled her eyes, glaring at him, begging him to accept what they both knew was true but only Dee Dee, so far, had been strong enough to admit. _Elian Sandoval wouldn't give up_. In the son of a bitch's self-righteous mind he owned her and that gave him the right to destroy her. Whether the process took a lifetime or as quickly as it took a bullet to discharge and claim its target didn't matter, he would never give up.

They both knew it. But like Dee Dee had said, only one of them had accepted it.

"I don't want to die," she continued. "If I did, I wouldn't be sitting here now. Trust me, I could've pushed Elian hard enough that he would've ended it a long time ago. But whether or not I want to die doesn't make any difference, it's about what Elian wants. Because in the big picture, whether or not we like it, he does have the power. We both know prison won't be enough to stop someone like him."

_Fuck him_, Hunter wanted to scream, and his next impulse was to stomp around and throw a tantrum. Because Dee Dee was right—damn it, he knew that she was right. Prison didn't scare a piece of scum like Sandoval—nothing scared the son of a bitch. His level of power was what comprised fear, and he knew it. Just like Dee Dee knew but Hunter didn't want to admit.

"Listen to me," she begged. "To the best of his capabilities, Elian does love Avi. But the one thing he's the most adept at is using. It's what his entire life has been about, and when push comes to shove, love doesn't stand a chance against winning with him. He _has_ to win at all costs and in every situation, and he'll sacrifice anyone, Rick, to make sure he does win."

Avi's face instantly popped into his mind, her cheeks tear-streaked and lips trembling. Their one assurance that her DNA test wouldn't be made public was going to be interred in two days, which meant any chance they had of keeping Avi's secret—if there was a secret that needed to be kept—would be buried along with Lydia Ortiz's ashes. "He won't get his hands on her," he promised. Relief flickered in Dee Dee's dark eyes, and he nodded, reinforcing his promise to both her and him. "If I have to take care of her, I will. But let me take care of you, too. Huh? Don't automatically sell your soul to the devil because you think it's the only way to protect everyone else."

She smiled softly, tellingly, through a shake of her head. "I'm not as selfless as you think I am," she admitted. "But the past six years have taught me to be a realist. And my reality is, the life I have was chosen for me not by me. Whether or not I deserved it doesn't matter, it's what I got, and now I have to see it through to the end—whoever's version of the end it turns out to be."

She made it sound so simple—her death, losing to the son of a bitch. Like she'd been telling the truth all along and it was how she'd always expected it to end. The fear he felt wasn't detectable in her, only resignation—_acceptance_. And it made him hate Sandoval even more for instilling it in her. "Dee Dee, no one's giving up."

"Good, because I'm not, either. Not this time. But for the my daughter's sake, I have to be prepared."

She was preparing herself to die; the thought seemed surreal to Hunter—sickening. He'd just gotten her back, and the reality she was envisioning was too unfair for him to give any consideration. _He wouldn't consider it_. She'd had six years stolen from her and she deserved at least fifty more as consolation. Which meant death wasn't an option. Or at least for him, Dee Dee's wasn't.

She pulled in a breath, holding onto the air for a moment before releasing it in a slow, steady stream. "I'm asking a lot," she repeated. "You have your own life…Mallory…to consider, and if it's too much for you, I'll understand. Just promise me, please, that you won't let Avi get lost in the system. Make sure wherever she goes—"

"She'll go with me," he said. Breathing in deeply, he nodded, adding force to his impulsive promise. "If she can't be with you, she'll be with me. That's a promise."

A smile flickered on her lips, and she nodded. Sighing, she dropped her head back against the wall and closed her eyes. Not looking relaxed, not feeling relaxed either, Hunter could tell, but with at least one fear finally eradicated.

**xxx**

"You look funny, Mama. Getted bubbles in your hair."

Avi's laugh, while pure, was more guarded than a child's should be. But even still, Dee Dee loved the sound of it. How it rolled so heartily out of her, like it climbed its way up from the very tips of her toes. Her whole body shook and eyes lit up, every giggle raw joy.

Touching the side of her head, Dee Dee scraped away the slathering of bubbles that Avi had blown at her. Her own smile was uninhibited as she leaned over the edge of the tub and scooped up a handful of suds, blowing them into the little girl's face and teasing, "Look at you now. You're funny, too."

Behind her and through Avi's giggles, she heard Hunter chuckle. It hadn't been her idea to give Avi a bath. She'd tried to pawn off the responsibility on him, using exhaustion as her excuse. But it hadn't worked, and fifteen minutes earlier, the responsibility had been tossed right back into her lap without so much as an apologetic blink from Hunter. And so she'd risen to the challenge. Nervously, but undeniably excited, also.

"You get lots of good rest?" Avi asked from the back of the tub, her skinny legs crisscrossed beneath the water and hands gliding back and forth over its foamy surface. "Hunter said if you got lots, you'd feel gooder. So, we tried to be very quiet."

Dee Dee sank down on folded legs, resting her forearms on the damp edge of the tub. It was the most overused excuse with her daughter, no matter what Avi asked of her, no matter what she seemed to need or want from her—_Mama's_ _tired, she needs to rest_. "I got a lot of good rest," she assured the attentive four-year-old. "So much rest that I don't think I'll need anymore for a while."

Avi responded with a sturdy nod, seeming to approve of her mother's answer. "Even after we go home to our house?" she prodded suspiciously. "You still won't need lots of rest?"

Dee Dee released a breath, meeting her daughter's stare with honesty, the one thing Avi had been starved of since the moment of her conception. No one had ever told her the truth, no one had ever intended to. Her life—like Dee Dee's—was based on and comprised of lies.

And it was time for life to change, for both her daughter and herself.

"When do we getta go to our house?" Avi pushed, suspicion swimming in her dark eyes.

Dee Dee cleared her throat, glancing behind her at Hunter. He nodded, urging her to delve into the unknown waters of honesty for the first time with the child whom she'd promised him that she wanted nothing more than to feel like she was her own. "Well," she began hesitantly, refocusing on the bubble-covered little girl. "We, uh. The thing is, Avi, we don't get to go back to our house. The policemen said we couldn't live there anymore, so that means we'll have to get a new house."

Avi twisted her pudgy lips to the side, before offering her opinion through a short shake of her head. "Our house is bestest."

"I know," Dee Dee sympathized. "It is, and we'll miss living there. We'll miss all of the things we have there. But it'll be fun getting new things—kind of like Christmas."

"We gonna get a new Lily?" Avi asked, squishing a fat mound of bubbles between the palms of her hands.

"Definitely a new Lily."

"How 'bout Isabel? We gotta get a new her, too, or do we getta keep ours?"

Dee Dee leaned fully against the tub, deflating, needing support. _I told you, this is_ too _hard_, she wanted to shout at Hunter, with her next move being to toss the responsibility of caring for her daughter right back in his lap while she hid away behind the locked door of the bedroom again. Sometimes being a spectator in your own life had its perks, Avi was quickly making her realize, and in the big, ugly picture, responsibility should be described as overrated at its best.

"Gotta get a new one," Avi answered for herself. "Not gonna get our Isabel back." Dee Dee scooped up a handful of bubbles, holding them out to Avi as if presenting a peace offering. The little girl shaved off the top layer of soap and adhered it to the tip of her chin, her brows creasing. "Where's Isabel gonna be if she's not gonna be with us?" she asked, patting her faux beard into place.

"Well, um." Dee Dee breathed in deeply, as much for strength as stalling. "For right now…for a while, Avi, Isabel has to stay with the policemen."

Avi's dark eyes made an abrupt shift upward, and she stared intently, as if daring her mother to deny what her frighteningly mature mind had already determined to be the truth. "The policemen gonna take me away, too?"

"Oh. No, sweetie," Dee Dee answered quickly, clearing the bubbles off Avi's chin with two gentle sweeps of her hand. "No one's going to take you away. You're going to stay with me. All right?"

Avi's dark brows crinkled and dipped. "For all the time? But…" She pursed her lips, shaking her head. "Only Isabel is all the time. You're just sometimes, Mama."

Instinctively, Dee Dee glanced behind her again, targeting Hunter. He was leaned back against the vanity, his arms knotted across his chest and expression one of encouragement. He nodded, urging her to keep going, to, for once, use her own voice instead of either Elian's or Isabel's. With a deep inhale, her shoulders rose, squared. Turning back toward her openly pessimistic daughter, she forced a smile, although a shaky one was all she managed. "That's the way it used to be, isn't it?" she asked. "But that's going to change, too. From now on, it's going to be you and me. Just the two of us."

Avi slinked forward, her tiny shoulders rounding. "You know any good stories?" she asked, one eye squinted as she stared down Dee Dee. "'Cause Isabel knows lots. Lots and _lots_."

"Well." Dee Dee dipped her hands into the warm water, swirling it. Letting the tiny whirlpool she created buy her a few minutes of time as it easily diverted Avi's attention. "Let's see. Good stories…" She huffed out a breath. "You know, uh." Giving the water a final spin, she dipped her head lower and recaptured her daughter's stare. "I'm not very good at making up stories in my head, but I do like to read books. And there are lots of storybooks, right? So, we can ask the policemen to bring us some, then we can read them together."

"You know how to read good like Isabel?" Avi asked, her skepticism obvious.

"Well, I don't know if I'm as good as Isabel, but I like to read. A lot." She targeted Avi's bare chest with a tickling splash of water. "I'd really like to read with you."

Avi shot another suspicious stare at Dee Dee, hesitating. "Isabel's the bestest reader." She pulled her knees up to her chest, hugging them with her soapy arms.

_Keep going, you can do this_, Dee Dee told herself, although her confidence stood up to her contrite encouragement with a stern, _Screw you. _Who was she kidding? She wasn't mother material; she never had been. And no matter how hard she tried she could never be gooder than Isabel. If a four-year-old knew it, why couldn't she accept it? After all, like Elian had always told her, she was inferior. Not good enough for him, and sure as hell not good enough for his daughter.

"Don't back down now."

She felt Hunter's hand brush her shoulder, and recoiled at his touch. He muttered something cliché and unhelpful about finally setting the record straight and the things most worth having were worth working the hardest for, and she scowled despite pretending that she was ignoring him. What did he know, anyway? He'd never had children. So, screw him. Even though she knew he was right didn't mean she had to follow his advice.

Dee Dee put her focus back where it belonged, on her daughter. Like Hunter had said, Avi was smart, but she was also a child. She understood without fully grasping and was still immature enough that she felt justified in basing her anger and beliefs off assumptions. She didn't yet know how to sift through her father's and Isabel's lies in order to find the truth, and Dee Dee couldn't help but wonder if her unfairly jaded mind would ever reach the maturity needed to realize that even though some sides to stories were never allowed to be told, they still existed.

"I know this is all pretty scary, Avi. It's scary for me, too, being here, away from home." Dee Dee nodded, Avi glancing up, openly questioning her candor. "And I know that I don't know all the things Isabel knows. I don't do most things as good as she does them." She confirmed her own accusation with another small nod of her head. "I need to do a lot better, I know that. But you know what? I also need some help. So, maybe that's what you could be—my helper? Whenever I forget something, you could remind me."

"Don't hafta tell Isabel. She don't forget."

"No, Isabel never does." Dee Dee shook her head, agreeing with Avi's assertion. "You know what, though? You're right about Isabel not coming back to live with us. She isn't, sweetie. She's never going to live with us again. So, that means we have to help each other. Right?"

Avi pulled her legs closer, hugging them tighter. She was sifting, Dee Dee instinctively knew. Through the lies and deceit, through what she had always been promised was the truth, and she was weighing the tellers of each against each other. Trying to decide once and for all who was the most deserving of her trust.

"I know how much you love Isabel," Dee Dee continued. "And I know that you miss her a lot. But she isn't coming back, Avi, and that isn't my fault. It isn't the policemen's fault, or Hunter's, or…yours."

"Is it Papa's fault?" she asked. Sounding eerily assured, like she didn't actually need an answer from her mother, because she had already figured it out for herself. "Did he make Isabel go to timeout like he makes you hafta?"

The truth could be a real bitch sometimes, Dee Dee quickly decided. It tricked you into believing you'd successfully kept it hidden only to rear its sanctimonious head when you were least prepared to confront or confess it. "Timeout..." She bit down on her bottom lip, chewing nervously. The part of her that was angry wanted to shout an unequivocal, "Yes!" but the part of her that tentatively believed she could become a still-impressionable Avi's mother urged her to lie one more time. The truth was, she didn't want Avi to see Elian as the monster Dee Dee knew him to be. Because once she started to see him that way, it was how she would see herself, also. And it was too painful, Dee Dee knew from experience, and far too exhausting to give hatred such a large portion of yourself. "Well, in a way…sort of, I guess, it's like Isabel's in timeout. She did some things that she shouldn't have, so the policemen are going to make her stay with them for a while."

"She was bad?"

Dee Dee nodded. "She took you with her to the airplane, and she shouldn't have done that."

Avi dropped her legs down into the water, lukewarm droplets splashing in the air. "But Papa told us to go on a trip, that's what Isabel said."

"Maybe Papa did say that, but the thing is, I didn't know where you were. That scared me."

"How come? I was with Isabel, like all times."

"You were with her, but this time she did the wrong thing by taking you away. She should've told me where you were going, but she didn't."

Avi cocked her head to the side, confusion settling on her face. "How come you hafta do timeouts? 'Cause you do bad things?"

_Did she do bad things? _Once again, Dee Dee found herself in an all-out war with the truth. She didn't know how much exactly her daughter understood, just that however much it was, was an unfair amount. "I guess…sometimes. Yeah. Everyone does bad things sometimes."

"It's not good to say lies," Avi continued. "Isabel said so. So, how come she lied and said it was okay to go on a trip if it wasn't?"

Avi was sticking her between the truth and a hard place, and Dee Dee wasn't sure how to squirm her way out. Did she repeat Isabel's sin by lying and making the truth something it wasn't, or did she give her daughter enough guarded information so that, in some way, she would have the tools needed to begin trying to understand what Dee Dee already knew she never would fully—that some people, even people your mind argued with your heart that you should love, were simply unlovable? They chose hurting over compassion and cared only about being self-serving instead of self-sacrificing. They weren't parents; they weren't even human. They _were_ monsters.

"That's right," Dee Dee began cautiously. "We shouldn't tell lies, and I'm glad you know that. It means you're really smart."

"But Isabel said it. So, how come she didn't remember not to lie?"

"Well." Dee Dee breathed in her daughter's innocence, wishing a portion of it could be hers again. "You know, sometimes I think people—even big people—get scared. And when they get really scared that makes it kind of hard to remember to do the right thing instead of the wrong thing."

"Like saying lies?"

"Like saying lies. Right."

"Is that how come Isabel hasta do timeout?" Avi asked, her eyes narrowing. "'Cause she got too scared to remember to not say lies?"

"I guess. Sort of, yeah," Dee Dee answered softly. "That's why she has to do timeout." Climbing to her feet, she grabbed the towel off the toilet lid and unfolded it, holding it open for her daughter. "Come on, baby. Let's get you out of there. The water's getting cold."

Avi lifted her hand into the air, accepting Dee Dee's. She rose up out of the water, suddenly looking taller to Dee Dee and somehow more mature. Maybe she didn't yet feel the full heaviness of the weight that rested on her shoulders, but Dee Dee didn't doubt any longer that, once she did, she would still be able to keep her balance and remain upright in spite of it. Because Avi _was_ smart, she was good. Not a monster like Elian, but an entity all her own who was just as capable of loving as she was in need of being loved.

She was her mother's daughter.


	21. Chapter 21

**TWENTY-ONE**

Life had taught him to soak in the chaos-free moments.

First as a child trapped in his father's erratic lifestyle, next as a young man striking out on his own and trying to find a balance between immaturity and responsibility, and finally with the daily—and all too often gruesome—grind that had somehow become his career. Each epoch was significant in his life and had shown him, without question, that silence truly was golden and the calm before any unavoidable storm should be met with gratitude versus apprehension.

"My throat's saying it's still thirsty, Mama. I think it needs one more drink of juice."

Hunter was unable to stop from smiling. He settled back into the corner of the sofa, an amused spectator only as he watched Dee Dee across the room. She sighed from the center of the bedroom doorway, the knob of the door in one hand and her other hand fisted against the jamb. To his best calculation, she'd spent the better part of fifteen minutes trying to escape entirely from the room. But each time success seemed just beyond the threshold, Avi would voice a demand, or ask a silly question that an answer wasn't really wanted for, or ramble off a senseless dissertation in hopes of gaining a pardon from the bedtime sentence their mother had imposed.

"No more juice, Avi," Dee Dee said around another sigh. "You've had enough. It's time to sleep now."

"But my throat is _very_ thirsty," Avi argued with deceptive innocence.

So far, Dee Dee had managed to keep her cool, retaliating to each request with an even-tempered response, offering patience long past the point when Hunter's would have registered empty, and managing to smile even though exhaustion was currently her most prevalent trait. But she was learning how to be a mother, relief told him, because she had to and even more because she wanted to. She wasn't a natural yet, but memories reminded him that she was a hard worker. Dedication and determination were inherent to her, and that was something that neither tragedy nor self-righteous sons of bitches could take from her. She herself determined what was worthwhile, outside influences never swayed her, and once her decision was made, it was set in stone. Her opinion couldn't be changed, dedication never flip-flopped and strength never waned.

"I don't like _this_ movie," Avi announced, garnering another sigh from her mother. "_Cinderalla _is the bestest, not Ariel."

"The policemen didn't know _Cinderella_ is your favorite, so they didn't bring it," Dee Dee explained for what Hunter thought was the sixth time. But still, she was managing to hold up. Inexperience be damned, her determination was gaining control.

"But Ariel is a fish, not a princess," Avi added with an enthusiasm that made it clear she wasn't anywhere close to falling asleep. "She has a fish bottom instead of foots."

As immature giggles trickled out of the bedroom, Dee Dee dropped her forehead against the doorjamb. Behind her in the living room Hunter began to chuckle, too, and she glared at him out of narrowed eyes. "You're finding this funny, aren't you?"

He raised a hand in a show of apology, before confirming her accusation with a nod. He was enjoying the show, but not in a humorous respect necessarily, more elated. Each second that her daughter carried on her tiresome routine, life was worming its way back into Dee Dee's eyes. To him, they already shone brighter and looked clearer, as if she were finally beginning to see the future—_a_ future, her future—versus continuing to stare so numbly into a past that never should have been hers to begin with.

"Avi, go to sleep," Dee Dee muttered into the wooden jamb as her daughter's laughter continued. "_Please_."

"Can't, Mama," Avi responded. "We didn't say a good-night story."

"We don't have any books yet," Dee Dee responded evenly, her stare once again refocused inside of the dimly lit bedroom. "Tomorrow I'll ask the policemen to bring some to us. All right?"

"What if they forget?"

"They won't forget," Dee Dee assured through a shake of her head.

"They forgetted Lily," Avi argued ingenuously.

Dee Dee groaned softly, glancing back over her shoulder at a still-grinning Hunter. "I have a headache," she whispered. Not looking for sympathy, he could tell, merely wanting assurance that whatever frustration she was beginning to feel was normal instead of some sign that she wasn't cut out for the one job she wanted most to succeed at.

"It's called being a parent," he responded, nodding the encouragement she was seeking. "Get used to it, because you're going to have that headache for the rest of your life." His smile broadened. "Feels good, doesn't it?"

"Those policemen are very bad rememberers," Avi huffed.

"Avi! Sleep!" Dee Dee growled, still not impatiently but authoritatively. For her effort, she received a heavy sigh in response, followed by a loud, breathy yawn. Turning away from the door, she made her way to the sofa and plopped down. "How does anyone do this more than once?" Groaning, she dropped the back of her head against the sofa back, closing her eyes. "It's… God. Hard."

"Hey. Don't count yourself short. Looks to me like you're doing just fine."

She opened her eyes, shooting a sideways glance at him. "I have you here to help."

"I wasn't helping just then," he said, nodding toward the bedroom, "and you were holding your own. And…" He smiled, pride sparking in his eyes. "I wasn't helping in the bathroom earlier, either. That was a tough situation—a tough conversation. But you still handled it like a pro."

She shook her head, nuzzling the backs of her shoulders into the cushion. "I didn't know what to say to her. I didn't…" She breathed out heavily, her stare targeting the ceiling overhead. "She knows more than I want her to. I tried to protect her, you know? But I didn't do such a bang up job, did I?"

_You did everything right_, he wanted to tell her, and maybe would if he thought there was even the remotest possibility that she would believe him. But whether or not circumstances had been in her control, she saw her weaknesses far more easily than her strengths. Maybe it was part of the healing process, or maybe it was just a quirk of her personality. Either way, he remembered her well enough to know that when blame was in need of being assigned an owner, she was the first to step up and accept the biggest portion for herself.

"She asked me about timeouts, why I had them," she admitted, rolling her head along the sofa to face him. Her eyes were darkened, the glimmer her daughter had imparted in them moments earlier having already faded. "Whenever Elian…whatever he…I just took it, everything he did." A small smile fluttered across her lips, only sadness at its core. "I always told myself that I wasn't doing it for me, I was doing it for her—for Avi. I didn't want her to know…to hear or see something and be afraid. But that's a lie. The truth is, I did it for myself. I took it, because that made it easier. But obviously…only easier for me, not her."

_You did everything right_, was still all he could think of to say, but didn't again. Because he understood the guilt when you believed you'd failed someone you loved, and a part of him was reveling in seeing that guilt in Dee Dee, too. Maybe it was selfish on his part, he didn't know, but he did know that guilt would take her one step closer to becoming her daughter's mother. Guilt was a part of the job, after all; maybe even the biggest part. And he wanted her to endure every aspect of parenthood—to suffer through and delight in each and every one. Because if he couldn't convince her that being Avi's mother was exactly who she was and was meant to be, maybe experience would be able to.

Hunter resituated, mirroring her position by crossing his ankles atop the coffee table and dropping his head back on the sofa cushion. With narrowed eyes, he stared up at the ceiling, lacing his fingers across his stomach. "When I was a teenager," he began, "my parents went through this time where they were having a lot of problems. I don't know if, in the end, they thought they would be able to work them out or not, but neither was at a place where they wanted to give up yet. So, they pretended. A lot. When I was around, they acted like their old selves. At night they'd both go up to their bedroom, close the door…" He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. "Then once they thought I'd gone to bed, my dad would head downstairs to the sofa. Mom would have the alarm set so she could wake him up before I got up. From what I remember, they did that for most of my senior year of high school, up until I moved out." He shrugged his shoulders. "All that time they thought they were protecting me, keeping their problems from me. But I knew all along. I just never said anything because they didn't."

Dee Dee released a drawn-out breath. "That was sleeping on the sofa."

"It was sleeping on the sofa," he agreed. "But my point is, no matter how big or little the problem, and no matter how great of a job parents think they're doing at hiding it, kids know. Unfortunately, we can't hide life from them."

"But I didn't want her to know," she argued through a whisper.

"You didn't want her to know but she does, and look at the effect it's had on her." As she glanced at him, questioning him, he nodded. "She isn't angry with you, Dee Dee. It's Sandoval she's not sure about. Even as little as she is, she knows he's the one who does things wrong. _He's_ the one she blames. So, if she isn't blaming you, why do you think you need to keep blaming yourself?"

She swallowed his question, uselessly mulling it over. A million different excuses were cycling through her brain, Hunter could tell, and she was searching like hell for _that one_ that might come out sounding at least halfway plausible. And as frustration became rooted in her expression, he knew that she was failing—just like he wanted her to. Self-blame was a useful tool when it was justified, but when it wasn't, the only purpose it served was to keep hurt alive and thriving.

"The son of a bitch told you what to do, and you did it because it made your life easier." He straightened his shoulders, turning toward her. "Whether or not you can see it, you were protecting Avi. She needs you, and you've protected her by protecting yourself."

"You don't get it. The two of us, Avi and me, we hardly ever spend—"

"Time together," he finished, nodding. "But it seems pretty obvious that the time you do spend with her is enough." He nodded again toward the bedroom door, as a lighthearted and whimsical tune whispered out of the doorway. "Avi knows that lying is a sin, yelling isn't right, and timeouts should be questioned instead of just accepted. Someone's taught her that, Dee Dee, and I don't think it's been Isabel Ramirez or Sandoval. With kids, it's more about quality than quantity, and it's obvious you make every second you do get with that kid count."

"You don't understand," she said, misunderstanding filtering into her voice. Like what she saw as being her sins should be just as visible to everyone else. "That first night you know, with Lydia? She was reading from my file—reading things about me. How other people had thought of me, who I was to them, and I didn't recognize the person she was describing. That person was a stranger, someone I don't remember being. I'm afraid to break the rules, because I'm too afraid of the consequences if I do. Even with Avi, sometimes Elian and I play games with her—_Chutes and Ladders_ is her favorite. And there was this one time…I beat Elian. I mean, it's just a silly kids' game, right, but later that night…" Her expression crinkled, leaving her looking as if the memory was as puzzling as hurtful. "He was so…mad, and I couldn't understand why. But he…he kept...he said I humiliated him in front of his daughter. So, the next time we played a game with Avi, I let him win. I made sure that he won. I make sure Elian always wins. Even with Avi, I put him first."

"No," Hunter disagreed quickly, sternly. "He does that. He puts himself first."

"It was always just a game," she whispered. "Right from the start, that's what it felt like…a game. Winner took all, you know? And both Oscar and Elian made sure I could never win."

Hunter saw tears hit the tops of her cheeks, and he reached for her hand. She didn't flinch or resist, so he wrapped his around hers. And he held on. Squeezing tightly, intending to hang on forever, if she would let him.

"One day I will have to explain it to Avi," she continued. "Really explain it. I'll have to tell her why he's in prison. But the thing is, I don't want her to know. I don't want her to ever feel sorry for me, or to wonder if I really do love her. Because she will wonder. How couldn't she?" She turned toward him, tears glistening in her eyes. "My, uh. My parents, you know, they…I was a…surprise." She smiled softly, shrugging. "My mom had to drop out of college because she got pregnant with me. She gave up her career, the future she'd been planning. And when I found out, I asked her. I mean, I knew that she loved me, but I still asked. I needed to hear it from her—did she regret me?"

"What'd she tell you?"

She sniffled, mopping the underside of her nose with her free hand. "She said I was a reason, not an obstacle. The reason why she became who she was supposed to be instead of who she'd planned on being."

He smiled, feeling gratitude toward Dee Dee's mother. She'd given Dee Dee a solid foundation to begin building her self-worth right from the start. And it was the same foundation Dee Dee had relied on to support her when Elian Sandoval believed he had taken everything and every part of her. It was the same foundation that, once her strength was back, Dee Dee would rebuild with her daughter.

"I do love her, don't I?" she asked, staring deep into his eyes, searching for the truth.

He nodded, his smile holding.

She nodded in return, hopefully. "It's what I want. I want to feel it, because then she'll become my reason. And I need a reason—a reason why it happened, why I survived. Because if it happened so that this particular person could come into the world, then I can accept it."

The foundation was being laid, Hunter could see her determination, and soon enough she would begin building her own future for both her daughter and her. Because that was who she was, it was who she had always been.

Even if she couldn't remember yet, he did.

She was a fighter.

The telephone rang, shattering their calm. Hunter jumped up from the sofa and headed toward the bar, Dee Dee's panicked warning, "Hurry before it wakes up Avi!" chasing after him. He slid up to the structure, grabbing the handset and answering with an unmistakably grumpy, "Hunter."

"Hunter, it's Riley Porter."

Hunter glanced at Dee Dee. She had settled into the sofa, her eyes closed and looking deceivingly relaxed. "Yeah? Something happen?"

"Sounds like there's a possibility something is," Porter responded tightly. "There was a potential sighting. We think we have Stanton isolated in a waterfront warehouse district."

"Anyone going to pick him up?" Hunter snapped impatiently, ducking his head in hopes of evading Dee Dee's curiosity.

"A task force is in route," Porter confirmed. "So are you and I. Head down to the lobby, I'll pick you up in fifteen minutes."

"Me?" Hunter asked quickly, sneaking another glance at Dee Dee. "Look it, uh. I don't think I should—"

"I'm not asking, Hunter, Corbin is demanding. Since you've been involved in this right from the start, he wants you listening in while Stanton is interrogated. There could be some details you remember that we've forgotten, or something Dee Dee told you that we don't know. Anything that might make him slip up will help."

He grimaced as Dee Dee's eyes opened, questioning him. "I don't feel good about it. Leaving right now—"

"There are six agents at the hotel," Porter returned impatiently, "and they have only one directive—to protect Dee Dee and her daughter. Trust me, they're safe. I'd argue myself about taking you out of there if I thought anything different."

It wasn't safety he was concerned about, Hunter wanted to argue, it was progress—specifically Dee Dee's and his. They were making strides and she was beginning to trust him. Not just to keep Avi and her safe, but trust him like she once had. In the past few hours alone he'd caught more familiar glimpses of her than he had since first seeing her behind the thick pane of glass in the Federal Building. Gideon Stanton's guilt and Anthony Corbin's demands could be damned as far as he was concerned. He wasn't willing to risk losing sight of her.

"It's an order, Hunter," Porter continued. "Corbin's direct order. And trust me, with all the shit that's already gone down that you've been a part of, I don't think now is the time to piss off the Bureau Director. So, get ready. I'm on my way."

**xxx**

_"This is a good thing, Dee Dee. It's our first big break. If we can get our hands on Stanton, that'll mean we're a step closer to shutting down Sandoval and getting your life back for you."_

When she dared let herself remember Hunter, she generally ended up surprising herself with just how much about him she hadn't been able to forget. He had a quick temper, short fuse, high-level of intolerance, unbelievable depth of compassion, dry wit and forgiving nature once he decided forgiveness was justified. One thing she didn't remember, though, was him ever putting too much stock in optimism. But the newer, older him seemed to be trying too hard to believe in it. Just like he wanted her to believe that she would get her life back, that there was some semblance of her past that was still salvageable enough to warrant being returned.

Dee Dee tilted her head back, letting the water from the shower spigot wash over her face a final time. Twisting the faucet handles, she shut off the spray and grabbed the towel draped over the stall. She dragged the cotton down her face and then cinched it around her torso, knotting two corners across her chest. The bathroom was warm, steam hanging thickly in the air, and on the other side of the door silence boomed. Thankfully, Avi had stayed asleep after Hunter left. He'd been worried about leaving the two of them alone, and although Dee Dee had shown him a stiff upper lip, she'd been even more worried. Not for Hunter's reason, though—the fear of some unidentified threat being within pouncing distance.

Her reason was a far more frightening one: her own daughter.

She'd never been alone with Avi before, solely in charge of her—responsible for protecting her, caring for her, simply watching over her—and she'd been told from the moment Avi took her first breath that parenting her daughter wasn't a responsibility Elian ever intended to make hers. And so she'd never fought for it; she'd never fought for Avi.

Because like she'd confessed to Hunter, it had been easier that way. At least for her.

She stepped out of the stall, pushing the glass-pane door closed behind her. It was odd how people could change. There'd been a time in her life when doing what was easiest hadn't mattered to her, only doing what was right—no matter how hard it ended up being. But that was until she'd had a deeper insight forced on her. She learned firsthand why a battered woman posted bail to get her abusive husband out of jail instead of pressing charges against him, and she got why an intimidated rape victim purposely didn't pick her attacker out of a line-up. They did it for themselves, because sometimes you just didn't have the energy to go up against an opponent that you knew, in the end, would win, anyway.

Sighing, she let the towel drop to the floor and picked up a white, cotton robe off the vanity. She slid into the bulky garment and knotted the belt around her waist, stepping up to the vanity. Sliding her hand down the steam-coated mirror, she cleared a path on the glass. Her reflection came into view and she turned her head to the left and then right, critiquing her appearance through sideways glances. Even when she tried not to, she always saw herself in Avi. They had the same nose, same shaped mouth, and their eyes were the same shade of brown. On the outside, they were one and the same—even Elian had never been able to discredit the parallels. But the outside was an inconsequential layer, just the surface that hid who a person truly was. And Dee Dee couldn't help but wonder who her daughter resembled most deep down, in her soul, where similitude mattered most. She didn't want to believe that Avi could be like Elian—cold and cruel and manipulative—but at the same time, even more, she hoped that she wasn't like her.

Collecting her wet strands of hair with her hand, she twisted them together and grabbed a plastic barrette off the vanity, clipping the tangled clump up and off her neck. If by some unimaginable chance Hunter was right and she ended up breaking free from Elian's iron grip, the first thing she would do was cut her hair. Nothing too drastic but definitely something different, maybe she'd even change the color—go lighter, hell, maybe she would become a redhead. Next, she would go shopping and pick out her own clothes. Nothing made out of linen or silk; she would stick strictly with denim and cotton. Just for the hell of it, she might even pick something in polyester. Every decision would be up to her, about herself, her daughter, and their lives. And she prayed that Elian would give her enough time to show Avi that she could be strong enough to make the right decisions and take care of them. Because she wanted Avi to see her strength, to at least know that she'd once been strong enough to rely on herself and her own abilities.

She glanced at the digital clock stuffed into the corner of the vanity. 10:53. If she were in Coral Gables still, dinner would have been hours earlier and Elian would be finished with her. She would be alone in her room, her shower over and Elian's smell scrubbed off her. More than likely she would have the TV on with the sound muted, and she would be on the sofa trying to concentrate on the newest murder mystery he'd left for her to read. She would have to go over each page twice because, inevitably, her attention would drift from the printed words to thoughts about her daughter. What bedtime story had Isabel read to her? Had Avi gone to sleep easily, or been restless? Would she wake up throughout the night, or would she sleep through until morning?

And once she wore herself out wondering about it all, she would begin to hope. That Elian would wake up in a good mood and that mood would hold throughout the day. Because his good moods translated into privileges for her—a few hours by the pool, a walk around the grounds, time with her daughter.

_Time_.

She had just started to want more of it, and every day away from Elian made that want stronger. She wanted it for herself, and even more for Avi. Because the more time they had together meant more opportunities Avi had to see her change—to know that she could change. She could be strong and decisive and defiant; she could be her own person.

And by the time the day came when she became nothing more than a memory in her daughter's mind, hopefully it would be her admirable traits instead of her degrading ones that Avi would remember most.

**xxx**

The area was dingy, dark.

Three-story buildings stood side-by-side in a horseshoe shape, their windows either broken or eclipsed by dirt and cobwebs. Behind the structures the sound of water slapping against stone could be heard, the beats irregular but constant and echoing. If it weren't for the unremitting flashes of red and blue, the abandoned waterfront would be pitch black. But instead it glowed neon. Men and women donning dark-colored windbreakers milled around in the artificial brightness, some with guns drawn, others accentuating the light with flashlight beams, and still others merely gawking like they weren't sure why they were there at all.

_Seven_, Hunter quickly counted, his gaze landing for only a second on each of the buildings. Seven buildings, each three stories high with countless rooms to look through, stairwells to check, elevator shafts to investigate, crates and boxes and— _Fuck_. If Gideon Stanton was still in the area, it could take days to find him. A damned needle in a haystack would be easier to get their hands on.

"How many buildings have been cleared so far?" Hunter asked, as Riley Porter made his way out of a cluster of four men.

Porter pointed the antenna of a handheld radio at the first two buildings to their left, nodding. "Just those two."

"Any sign that Stanton has actually been here?"

"Nothing other than the sighting," Porter answered, his attention focused on the third building as a baritone voice boomed over the handheld, "Clear in three!" As the radio silenced again, he slid it into his jacket pocket. "Just remember, Hunter. If we do find him, the trial comes before the conviction."

"Trial, right," Hunter scoffed. "Because he deserves to be treated fairly?"

"We suspect someone on the inside is playing for Sandoval's team," Porter returned sternly. "We don't have solid proof, though. Not against Stanton or anyone else."

"Dee Dee described him." Hunter hissed, spinning around so that he was face-to-face with the agent. "Dark hair, East coast accent—"

"She described what she _thought_ she remembered," Porter barked back. "But she also admitted that she didn't spend a lot of time with him. As far as her physical description goes, it points the finger at a third of the agents in the Bureau. Christ's sake, look around you right now. Dark hair, around six-feet, average build—take your pick. It could be just about anybody, including me."

"Oh, come on. We both know who it is."

"No, we don't know. We know what Dee Dee _thinks_."

Hunter grunted a laugh, backing up a step. "You're doubting her credibility again?"

Porter shook his head, sighing. "No one's doubting her, but no one's overlooking the facts, either. And the facts are, it's been six years, and she saw this guy a couple of times and only for a few minutes both times. And you can't overlook what her state of mind would've been, either. She'd been traumatized, had to be in shock …" He shook his head again, harder. "We both know what trauma can do to the mind. Someone other than Velasquez and Sandoval was in that bedroom with her, I don't doubt that. No one doubts it. What's in question, though, is the accuracy of her memory when it comes to remembering that someone else."

_Screw you_, Hunter glared, huffing a breath. The FBI could doubt Dee Dee all they wanted. The bastards could make her jump through fucking hoops to prove her competency, but he already trusted her. No one else had spent time with her around-the-clock, no one else had watched her struggle to get any and every little piece of herself back, and no one else knew what she was made of deep down, all the way to her core like he did. Traumatized or not, Dee Dee was a fighter—a no holds barred, give it her entire heart and soul type of fighter. Maybe the sons of bitches had gotten the upper hand on her in Malibu, but they wouldn't have been able to make her stop looking for a way to sneak the win past them. Details would've been at the forefront of her mind, no matter how minute or insignificant they seemed. She would've remembered, and retribution would have been her sole reason for making sure that she did.

"We want to get our hands on Stanton, too," Porter assured, snapping Hunter out of his thoughts. "But this isn't going to turn into a witch hunt. Just like anyone else, Gideon Stanton will be considered innocent until he's proven guilty."

"Right," Hunter returned. "Same courtesy he's shown Dee Dee—innocent until proven guilty." He shook his head, grumbling his disagreement. "That bastard's had a hard-on for her since the second she was walked out of Sandoval's house. He convicted her without a trial first, and why do you think that is, Porter? Huh?" His eyes narrowed, and he aimed a finger in Porter's direction. "I'll tell you why—to save himself. She can identify him. She can put him in that house in Malibu and connect him to Velasquez and Sandoval, and he knows it."

"And if that's true," Porter responded with a firm nod, "I'll take the bastard down myself. That's a guarantee."

**xxx**

Avi was out cold, thankfully.

Dee Dee leaned a shoulder into the doorjamb, twisting her hands in the ends of the robe's sash as she stared at the tiny form sprawled across the bed. Avi lay spread eagle, taking up over half of the bed. Her hair was fanned across the pillow, and her deep breaths were audible. She looked peaceful, at ease. Oblivious to the fears that Dee Dee worried had been passed down to her.

Sighing, she pushed off the jamb and turned to face the living room. It was past midnight; Hunter had been gone for over three hours. She felt isolated—from Hunter, at least. And surprisingly, it made her nervous.

It made the memories all too vivid.

Keeping her back to the bedroom doorway, her gaze landed on nothing in particular across the room. In the beginning, trapped inside the building and then the bedroom in Malibu, she'd felt alone. More than anything else, she'd wanted to hear Hunter's voice, to have him reassure her that the nightmare was about to end—that he was going to end it for her. In her mind, she would talk to him and he would talk to her, and their conversations kept her sane. His voice had soothed her, because in the beginning, she'd been able to hear it clearly.

But then it began to fade.

Gradually at first, becoming too low for her to make out his words.

And then it disappeared altogether.

No matter how hard she tried, after a while it was only Elian's voice she heard. Hunter had disappeared, and in order to hold onto what little bit of sanity she'd arrived in Coral Gables still possessing, she hadn't fought to get him back.

She'd forced herself to let go.

Her stare hit the wet bar. She wanted a drink, and she quickly decided the night's choice would be vodka—straight up. Nothing added to dilute it, or steal any of its potency. She wanted to feel the full effect of the alcohol. A hazy mind, sluggish body, heavy eyelids and ultimately, sleep. No thoughts or nightmares, just the respite of falling into complete and total oblivion.

She made it a few steps away from the door before stopping, a rustling inside of the bedroom catching her attention. Glancing back over her shoulder, she heard the noise again, softer but still noticeable. Damn it. For once, she _was_ responsible, the one in charge, and even if it was a role she wasn't used to, it was one she didn't have any other choice at the moment than to live up to. Which meant, like she was used to, what she wanted didn't matter only what someone else wanted did.

"Okay…" she sighed, turning back toward the bedroom. "What're you doing awake?"

She peeked through the doorway before tiptoeing inside, scrutinizing the motionless body in the bed. Avi had rolled onto her side, leaving one leg hanging over the edge of the mattress from the knee down. Smiling, Dee Dee made her way to the bed and gently grabbed Avi's ankle, lifting her leg back onto the bed.

Crisis averted_. Hello, Vodka_.

**xxx**

"Where's Corbin? Shouldn't he be here?"

Riley Porter dropped the radio into his jacket pocket, static still humming through the speaker. "Interviews," he explained, sounding as exhausted as Hunter felt. "Two of Sandoval's goons decided today was the day to bare their souls. Corbin wanted to personally talk to them. Plan was to take whatever information they gave up to Sandoval himself to see if he could get anything that sounded halfway incriminating out of him."

"Had any luck?" Hunter asked.

"Must still be talking. I've tried to get a hold of him twice on my cell phone, both times it's gone to voicemail." His gaze shot over Hunter's left shoulder as a voice in the distance boomed, "Clear in four!" and he shook his head in response. "Stanton has to still be in the area. We had people in route as soon we got the call about the sighting. He couldn't have gotten far in the ten minutes it took the first agents to get here."

"He's done a damn good job of hiding for the past six years," Hunter groused, glancing back over his shoulder at the organized mayhem less than one hundred yards away. "What makes you think he'll slip up now?"

"Because now we know we're looking for him," Porter answered, matter of fact. "By now, he has to know it, too. Otherwise, he wouldn't have pulled this disappearing act."

"How long has it been since anyone's heard from him?"

Porter grimaced, shaking his head. "Last known contact was made exactly ninety-seven minutes after Lydia Ortiz was killed."

"Sounds like he wanted to make sure he'd succeeded."

"He didn't mention Ortiz when he called. Only asked about Dee Dee, wanted to know if there was any new information on her whereabouts."

"Oh, come on," Hunter hissed. "The guy knew exactly where Dee Dee was. He'd been harassing her all night."

"If he knew where she was, why didn't he go after her?"

"He did. The window, remember? It was open."

"And as far as anyone could tell, he didn't go through it," Porter argued. "That house was gone over four times, Hunter, and there weren't any fingerprints or trace evidence—nothing that proved Stanton had ever been there."

Hunter growled with incredulity, his eyes widening. "Stop making excuses for the prick. He just happened to call Dee Dee the one and only time she was left alone? That means he had to have found out where we were hiding her, and he had to have been watching the house to know I'd left."

"If that's true, why didn't he make a move?" Porter barked, taking a step closer to Hunter. "He had the opportunity, so why not take it? There would've been more than enough time to get Dee Dee out of the house—hell, out of Miami—before we made it back there."

Hunter took a step back, scowling. Thinking. It was one of the questions he'd been asking himself since the night Lydia Ortiz died—_why?_ If Stanton had planted the bomb in Lydia's car, why hadn't he taken advantage of the time the chaos it created afforded him? He had to have known Dee Dee was alone, otherwise he wouldn't have called, and how in the hell had he been able to call her in the first place? Lydia assured him that no one else knew where they were staying or the phone number to the house. And as far as his one and only trip to the Federal Building post Dee Dee's planned disappearance, every precaution was taken to make sure he got in and back out unnoticed.

"Someone went to that house," Hunter said, knotting his arms across his chest. "Dee Dee didn't open the window, and she sure as hell didn't imagine those phone calls. And don't forget that she recognized the voice. She knew it was _his_ voice."

"She thought it was our mystery man from Malibu," Porter disagreed. "But didn't the two of you talk about him that same day? You questioned her about him, made her remember him, even describe him." He shrugged stiffly, unconvinced. "Whether or not she was conscious of it, this guy was on her mind. The calls started coming in, so she convinced herself it was him. But the fact is, none of us know who this guy is—dirty FBI or just another one of Sandoval's hired thugs. And none of us—not even Dee Dee—know for sure if it was him who called that night."

"Not even Dee Dee…" Hunter sneered, shaking his head. "You haven't talked to her like I have. Maybe that night in Malibu she was traumatized and in shock; I don't know how she couldn't have been considering what she'd been through. But in spite of it, she remembers. She remembers a hell of a lot more than she wants to."

"Hunter, I'm not trying to discredit—" Porter's voice broke as another screamed through the radio. He fished it out of his pocket, flipping it over in his hand as the message was repeated for a second time.

"Building five! We have something!"

**xxx**

She'd barely made it back out of the bedroom when she heard the noise again, louder than the times before.

But before she turned back around, before she caught a glimpse of Avi still asleep in the bed, the fist slammed into her jaw.

The impact sent her reeling backwards, black dots overtaking her vision and panic freezing her mind. She hit the floor hard, the back of her head taking the brunt of her fall, and before her senses had time to think about returning, a hand tangled in the flaps of her robe and yanked her back to her feet, spinning her around. An arm latched around her midsection as a hand clamped over her mouth and pinched her nose closed, cutting off both her scream and air. She tried to bite the palm as her neck was arched and head wrenched backwards onto the broad shoulder, but the pressure was too powerful and she only succeeded at scraping the inside of her bottom lip.

The strong arms lifted her, leaving only the tips of her toes touching the floor. She kicked at the legs behind her, grunting and trying to shake her head—shake off the hand—in order to get a breath. But she couldn't budge it, and so she used her last bit of air to scream into the palm as the body carried her into the second bedroom.

The arms released her and the door was slammed shut. She was thrown forward, her upper torso landing on the bed and knees crashing to the floor. Sucking in a rasping breath, she scrambled forward, trying to climb onto the bed, her mind screaming at her to move, get away. Escape. But before she could, the hands gripped around her hips, slamming her back down against the edge of the mattress. She grunted from the force and tangled the bedspread in her hands, pulling, as the body pressed against her, trapping her, the strong legs wedging between hers.

"No!" she managed, before her head was shoved forward and her face was pushed into the mattress. Her air cut off again, her fight still useless.

**xxx**

Above him, the ceiling shook.

Hunter glanced up, wincing. He didn't know how many agents were upstairs only that it sounded like one thousand pairs of feet stomping through an Irish jig. The metal beams that crisscrossed the ceiling vibrated and creaked, threatening to cave in on top of the dozen agents that occupied the first floor of the old warehouse. Dust rained down, thickening the already musty air, conflicting with its overall dankness and making it hard to breathe in. Or maybe it was the unexpected ugliness their entrance into the building had exposed that was tightening his chest.

He stepped up beside Riley Porter, glancing into the refrigerator-size, wooden crate that was captivating the agent's attention. Inside were bodies. None looking older than late teens or early twenties, all dressed only in a bra and panties, each face scrubbed clean of makeup, a single bullet hole in the back of every skull.

Five bodies.

Each one someone's daughter, someone's sister, possibly even someone's mother.

_Someone_.

"They haven't been dead long," Porter said tightly. "Rigor is just setting in."

"Stanton came here to tie up Sandoval's loose ends."

"Looks like that was someone's intention," Porter responded, turning away from the crate and the stack of lifeless bodies inside. He nodded toward the furthest end of the room, leading Hunter's stare to the haphazardly placed mattresses that littered the floor. There were fifteen total. Sheets were wrinkled into heaps on a few, but most were bare and all were stained, dirty.

"This must be some kind of holding facility for the women Sandoval traffics," Hunter said. "He keeps them here until he sells them or finds a street corner to stick them on."

"It's a perfect location," Porter agreed, glancing up at the rattling ceiling. "Isolated, deserted, on the water. Sandoval can get the women in easily enough and once they're here, there's no way out except his way."

"It's going to be tough to identify any of them."

Porter nodded. "Sandoval hasn't gotten to where he is by being stupid. These women were probably immigrants and runaways, and he would've destroyed any personal information they had as soon as he got his hands on them."

"Just like he tried to keep information on Dee Dee hidden. He never filed their marriage certificate, and he put Ramirez's name on Avi's birth certificate." He made another slow glance around the area, aware of but not seeing the flurry of activity. "No one other than his employees ever saw her or even knew she existed, and you can bet the only people who knew these women existed were the bastards that paid for them."

Porter took in a breath, his expression sobering even more. "At least we were able to get Dee Dee out," he said. "That's more than we could do for these women."

"Agent Porter!" a woman bellowed from the staircase, bending forward and peeking over the metal railing. "We need you upstairs! We have more bodies!"

**xxx**

His hand was between her legs.

Dee Dee scrunched her eyes closed, hiccupping through breaths. She was supposed to be safe. It was what Hunter had promised her and what Lydia Ortiz had tried to make her believe from the very beginning.

It was a promise they all said they believed.

Just like she still believed in Elian.

"Shh, now, Mrs. Sandoval." His hot breaths slithered through her hair, heating the back of her neck. "I've waited a long time for this, to find out exactly what it is about you that made a smart man like Elian risk absolutely everything."

His tone was taunting, thick with victory.

Just like it always sounded in her nightmares.

Beneath his heavy body Dee Dee remained stiff, frozen. She wasn't surprised that he'd found her again; she'd just hoped that he wouldn't. She had wanted to believe Hunter's promise, to believe what he believed. She'd tried to pretend that she could be safe.

"All right now," he grunted, his hands once again tightening around her hips. "We have a big decision to make, you and me." He hoisted her forward, tossing her completely onto the bed. Sliding her hair off of the side of her face, his lips brushed against her ear. "How are we going to do this, hmm? The easy way, or the hard way?"

A groan was the most of a response Dee Dee could manage, although her mind screamed back at the bastard that there was only one way—the hard way. No win choices and compliance only equated with the easy way in the minds of the arrogant sons of bitches that forced themselves on others. But the truth those left with the no win choices knew was that cruelty was hurtful. It cut deep.

It was always hard.

No matter if you fought your way through it or submitted to it.

**xxx**

There were three more bodies.

Young, barely clothed, dirty, looking half-starved, staring out at the world that had turned so brutal and unfair with lifeless eyes.

"They're so young," the forty-something woman who had called Hunter and Porter up to the second floor announced, shaking her head. "Who'd do something like this?"

Hunter grunted, taking in the randomness of the women's wounds. The brunette had a single gunshot wound to the upper back, the redhead had been shot twice—once in the lower back, again in the back of the head—and the blonde, who looked to be the youngest of the three, had been shot once in the back of her neck and once through the center of her left hand. All three were sprawled on the dusty floor, not hidden like the bodies downstairs but in plain sight. Like they had fallen in the spots where their designated, lethal bullets made contact.

"They were running," Hunter said, nodding down at the blonde. "All shot from behind."

"They probably tried to get away when the bastard started shooting the others," Porter added tightly. "He chased them up here."

Hunter glanced back over his shoulder at the staircase in the distance. "It would've taken a lot of time and energy to get them all back downstairs and into the crate with the others. It was easier just to leave them."

"Agent Porter," the woman said, craning her neck to get a better look at the blonde's ashen face. "This one looks familiar. I'm positive I've seen her before."

"Familiar?" both Hunter and Porter asked, Porter adding, "Why do you think so?"

"Information came in on her, I don't know. A month or two ago," the woman continued, nodding as if to assure both the men and herself that her memory was correct. "TSA put out an alert. She'd made three known trips in a short amount of time back and forth between Miami and Colombia. Name they had for her was Maria Gonzalez, but it was assumed that was an alias. DEA had her on their radar, though."

"There're lots of places to hide drugs on the human body," Hunter groused.

"More than likely she was one of Sandoval's mules," Porter said.

Hunter grunted a laugh. "Considering what the son of a bitch likes to do to women, she ended up with the better job. Maybe she lucked out and he hadn't started prostituting her yet."

"That's a hope," Porter returned stiffly. "But I have a feeling she didn't get that lucky. All work is Sandoval's motto for his employees. Which means Maria here—or whatever her name was—probably had more than one job."

Maybe Dee Dee really was the lucky one, Hunter realized, although understanding it only intensified the burn in his chest versus giving him any sort of comfort. But at least Sandoval hadn't sold her off like livestock, or worse, continuously rented her out to the highest bidder. He hadn't used her body as some sort of damned valise to carry his drugs from country to country. Her humiliation, at the very least, had been kept private. Something Dee Dee was still forced to endure, but only for the son of a bitch's heartless eyes to witness. And all things considered, that should be a comfort. Shouldn't it?

"The hell…" Porter grumbled, kneeling beside the blonde. He pulled an ink pen out of his breast pocket and poked the lidded end against the side of the woman's mangled, left hand. "A pro, and she's wearing a rock like this?"

Hunter dropped down beside Porter, staring over his shoulder at the Marquise-cut, white gold ring shoved halfway up her ring finger. He grabbed the pen out of Porter's hand and hit the diamond on the side, twisting the ring one way, before knocking it again and twisting it the other way. "Get me a fucking phone!" he barked, jumping back to his feet. "I need a phone now!"


	22. Chapter 22

**TWENTY-TWO**

When he flipped her onto her back, she managed to land a solid kick to his groin.

Her aim veered a little too far to the left to be considered dead-on, but she got close enough to make him lose his breath, which gave her the seconds needed to be able to slide out from under him. Frantically, she half-scooted, half-crawled, managing to make it to the foot of the bed before his fingers closed around her left ankle. "No!" she growled, which coincided with him hissing an angry, "Damn it!" that was followed by a hard yank. Her arms went out from under her, her head slapped against the mattress, and she once again grabbed uselessly at the comforter as he pulled her back to the center of the bed.

She tried to take in a breath, managing only to fill her mouth with the downy comforter before he slammed his hand down on the back of her head and ground her face into the mattress. Kicking and twisting, she began to claw at air—at anything, at nothing. Trying to make contact with skin, hoping to damage just enough to buy her another few seconds to get away. But a hard blow to the side of her head stilled her. She groaned, stunned, as she was flipped onto her back again and he climbed over her, straddling her waist. His hand latched around her throat, squeezing, and she clamped her eyes closed. She didn't want to look at him; she didn't want to remember him. But as his fingers clamped tighter, cutting off her air, her eyes popped open in pleading.

And instantly, sickeningly, she did remember. She couldn't stop remembering.

Six years had added some gray to his hair, but otherwise he resembled the demon that haunted her nightmares. His eyes were still cold, features hard, and he stared down at her with the same contempt she'd heard in his voice six years earlier when he tried to convince Elian to kill her.

Grabbing his arm, she hooked her hands around his wrist, trying to loosen his grip. Around her, the room began to spin and above her the reddening face began to blur. Inside her chest her lungs exploded and her limbs went limp, her arms falling to her sides.

"One more thing your husband has been wrong about," he hissed, loosening his grip on her throat and grabbing hold of her chin. "He said he had you trained. The idiot actually believes he's broken you." He smiled, the effect heartless. "But you and I know the truth, don't we? There's still some fight left in you."

"Don't…do…this," Dee Dee rasped, each word choked. "Elian will…kill you. He'll—"

"You might be right about that," he returned, releasing his grip on her chin and burying his hand in the side of her hair. He tangled the strands between his fingers, twisting, tugging just hard enough to make her wince. "Elian doesn't like to share his property. But at the same time, what he doesn't know won't hurt either one of us. Right?" He leaned down, his face only inches above hers. Smoothing a clump of hair behind her ear, he whispered tauntingly, "I know you're good at keeping secrets, Mrs. Sandoval. So, let's see how good you are at convincing me to keep your secret for you."

**xxx**

_"Oh my, God. Rick, it's beautiful—absolutely perfect. I love it."_

"The fuck you mean that's your fiancé's engagement ring?" Porter glared at the diamond ring balanced on the end of the ink pen. "Christ's sake, tell me you're joking. Tell me—shit. Anything other than that."

_"Things are gonna be different, Mal. I want them to be different; I want to be different. You deserve more, and that's exactly what I plan to give you."_

He felt like a bastard. No, scratch that. Just feeling like something insinuated it wasn't necessarily true, and a bastard was exactly what he was. Sweat broke out across Hunter's forehead, and he dragged his palm over his skin to clear it away. He'd given Mallory the ring the night he'd proposed to her—after a candlelit dinner, over their third glasses of Merlot, with both feeling drunkenly giddy and tired and in love. No, scratch that again. Mallory had been sure she was in love, and he'd been pretending he wasn't a drunk bastard.

_"Are you sure, Rick? This is what you want? I mean, are you ready to let the rest of it go? For it to finally be us—just the two of us?"_

_"I'm sure—sure about you, about us. You're what I want, Mallory. You're all I need."_

"Hunter? Talk to me, damn it—"

"It's her ring," Hunter choked. "It's…yeah. Mallory's." He'd picked the ring out himself, special. And it was special, or at least that's what he told Mallory when he slipped it onto her finger that first time. But what the bastard in him kept hidden was that it was picked with Dee Dee in mind. Marquise was her favorite cut, and she preferred white gold over yellow. It was something he knew about her. Something he never shared with Mallory.

"Great. Fuck." Porter pulled the cell phone out of his back pocket. "When's the last time you talked to Trask?"

"It was, uh." Hunter shook his head. Not answering was his only answer for Porter, or it was the only honest one, at least. Because the truth was, he couldn't remember exactly how long it had been since the last time Mallory and he talked. He only remembered how she'd begged him to include her, not to forget her, and the whole time she had been wearing the ring that he'd handpicked to Dee Dee's tastes.

What a bastard.

"Patch me through to Corbin, now," Porter barked into the phone. He kicked the toe of his shoe into the ground, dragging a hand through the top of his hair. "So, we don't even know how long she's been missing, that's what you're telling me?"

"Buildings six and seven are clear," a fresh-faced agent announced, as he skidded up to Hunter and Porter. In the distance, still more agents scrambled, dodging in and out of buildings, barking orders back and forth, looking both dazed and exhausted.

"And, what, that's a relief?" Porter grumbled, leaning back against a black, four-door sedan. A red light flashed behind the windshield, haloing his slouched frame and intensifying the tension that riddled his face. "Damn it!" He slammed his thumb against the phone's disconnect button. "Corbin's not picking up." Sighing, he glanced back at the buildings. "Okay, so. Would Stanton have brought her here—Trask?"

Hunter's stomach tightened, his narrowed gaze following Porter's to the warehouses. Why hadn't he called her? Or, Jesus, one visit to her hotel wouldn't have killed anyone. But the truth he had to accept was, him not visiting her just might have gotten Mallory killed.

Porter shrugged, as Hunter fell back beside him against the car. "We only found eight bodies." He squinted, watching as empty body bags were hauled into the building directly in front of them. "So, where would he have taken Trask?"

Hunter took in a breath, his stare focused on the same scene occupying Porter's attention. "Stanton's been with the Bureau too long to be this stupid, to let himself get seen so easily." He folded his arms over his chest, his eyes narrowing. "He's stayed under the radar for days, why show up now? Unless he has a point to make?"

"A point?" Porter shook his head, grumbling disagreeably under his breath. "What're you thinking? What, that Trask is some kind of 'point' to him?"

"Or a bargaining chip," Hunter countered. "He can't get his hands on Dee Dee, so he went for the easier mark. Mallory's been staying alone, more or less staying out of touch. She could disappear for a few days before anyone noticed." Was he listening to himself? Because sometimes, even bastards needed to. _She could disappear for a few days before anyone noticed?_ Christ. It was his fiancé he was talking about, not a damned stray cat that had been wandering the neighborhood.

"It'd be a stupid move."

"When's the last time the son of a bitch made a smart one?"

Porter sighed, scrubbing his face with his hands. "We need to relax a minute, think. It's important to keep in mind Dee Dee hasn't identified Stanton. All we have is a half-ass description, but she hasn't picked him out of a line-up. So for all we know, we're running in the wrong direction right now."

"Don't worry. When Dee Dee does see him, she'll identify him," Hunter reproached. "Show her a picture, stand him on his head in front of her, she'll point the finger right at him. And so will Mallory. Because whatever's happened to her, you can bet Stanton is behind it. Just like he was always behind what happened to Dee Dee. So this time, work with me to bring the son of a bitch down, will you? Because I'll be damned before I let Mallory get lost for even one more day, let alone six years."

**xxx**

She'd taken two more blows to the jaw and managed to land one of her own to the side of his nose.

Which, her obvious disadvantages considered, probably hadn't been the wisest move on her part.

Striking back only succeeded at angering him, not slowing him down, and as soon as her punch was delivered, he retaliated with a third blow to the middle of her chest, knocking the wind out of her.

"I gave you options!" he hissed. "The choice was yours—easy way or hard way! And once a decision is settled on, Mrs. Sandoval, you can't change your mind!" Still straddling her, he rose up onto his knees.

"Please," she whimpered, breathless. "You don't…don't have…to…do this."

He chuckled icily; making it clear that any begging she chose to do would be in vain. "Shut up." Reaching into the breast pocket of his jacket, he retrieved a cell phone. It vibrated in his hand—once, twice, three times—before he regarded it with an impatient grumble and dropped it back into his pocket. "You know, Lydia Ortiz was very good at her job, very thorough. She never fell short in her responsibilities. And the last responsibility she lived up to before her untimely death was sharing the secret about your dirty, little indiscretion. Now, she wasn't a gossip, I don't want to tarnish her memory by making you think that. But she did have a soft spot for you. In fact, some think that's what got her killed." He dragged his finger along her jaw line, smiling. "Tell me, Mrs. Sandoval, how do you think your husband will feel if he finds out what a fool you've made him look like by passing off your filthy bastard as his heir apparent?"

**xxx**

"How in the hell did this happen?"

Porter had turned his back to Hunter, but his side of the conversation was loud and audible as he barked into the cell phone. The anger was clear in his voice, causing Hunter's gut to tighten as he tried to interpret the information being relayed by the unidentified caller.

"Has Corbin been informed?"

Hunter took a step to the side, peeking around the agent's shoulder to get a look at his face. Porter looked as angry as he sounded; his face tensed and veins bulging in his neck. As information continued to be relayed, he shook his head and then flung it back, glaring up at the dark sky overhead. "All right," he hissed, lowering his head, staring straight ahead at nothing in particular. "Until someone talks to Corbin and he gives official orders, I want Sandoval in solitary confinement. I don't want him communicating with anyone—_no one_. He goes into complete isolation, no exceptions—period."

"What?" Hunter snapped, stomping around Porter and facing him head-on. "Is it Mallory?"

Porter ignored him, instead barking into the phone, "I want updated on the half hour." He snapped off the cell, keeping it fisted in his hand.

"What?" Hunter pressed, wide-eyed. "What's going on? Tell me—"

"No one's heard anything about Trask," Porter interrupted. "Agents are at her hotel now, they're searching her room." He glanced down at the phone in his hand. "The call, uh. One of the men who rolled on Sandoval—a, uh, a Rueben Sanchez. He was found hanging in his cell. Bed sheet was knotted around his neck and his hands were tied behind his back. Obviously, someone wanted to make sure the rest of Sandoval's men got the message that they're supposed to keep their mouths shut."

"Fuck…" Hunter seethed, turning to once again face the coordinated mayhem on the other side of the dusty lot. "Why in the hell wasn't Sanchez being protected? The fact that he talked made him an instant target, which meant precautions should've been taken—"

"They were suppose to move him into isolation!" Porter broke in. "But someone—damn it! Someone screwed up!"

"Someone screwed up? That's putting it mildly, don't you think?"

"Fine!" Porter conceded. "It was a major fuck up! Does that make you feel better?"

Better, right. What would make Hunter feel better would be to slug the arrogance out of every one of the stuffed suits and then move on to the son of a bitch Sandoval and his brainwashed goons. Death was a joke to all of them, those hiding behind badges and those hiding from them. Life didn't hold any significance but was viewed as expendable. Nothing to be respected but to be used—ended—when it suited someone else's narcissistic needs.

"Agent Porter!"

Both men turned, refocusing as a man jogged across the lot toward them. His sandy-colored hair was mussed; his face lined with wrinkles, and the dark windbreaker he wore was zipped up around his lanky torso. He stumbled to a stop in front of Hunter and Porter, outstretching his right hand and revealing a clear, plastic baggie with a cell phone inside of it.

"It was found behind building seven, near the water's edge," he panted, as Porter ripped the bag away from him. "Already talked to Headquarters, and they've confirmed that the number that rings through belongs to Special Agent Stanton."

**xxx**

_"Tell me, Mrs. Sandoval, how do you think your husband will feel if he finds out what a fool you've made him look like by passing off your filthy bastard as his heir apparent?"_

"Don't hurt her."

"Whatever happens is your fault," he returned, smirking. "You're the one who betrayed your husband's trust by screwing another man."

She'd never felt dirtier, more like the whore that Elian always accused her of being. Staring up into his eyes, seeing his belief in what she was so clearly, Dee Dee felt like she was the one who'd actually done something wrong.

She'd betrayed Elian.

And she knew how dangerous that was to do. But at the time, she hadn't thought through consequences, only gave into selfishness. She had wanted to feel desirable and wanted, like someone else's equal. It hadn't been love she'd looked for from Marcus, but she couldn't deny that it had been respect. She'd needed to feel it again, had wanted to feel it more than anything else, and so the risks—as foolish as they seemed in hindsight—had been worth it.

Then.

But the present had a way of shoving the past's imprudence back in your face and making it too blatant to be ignored.

He tickled the underside of her chin with his fingertip, sending a shiver coursing through her.

"Please…" she whimpered. "Please, she's…she's—"

"Not Elian's," he responded, matter of fact. "Therein lies our problem, Mrs. Sandoval. And even though it's not the little bastard's fault, someone still has to pay. Surely your husband's taught you that lesson by now, hasn't he?"

"No!" she moaned. "If someone has to pay, it should be me!"

"Oh, it will be," he mocked. "But the evidence of your indiscretion needs to be erased as well."

"She's a child!"

"She's a bastard!" he hissed back into her face. "_Your_ dirty, little secret! And you should know by now that your husband doesn't like when secrets are kept from him!"

Dee Dee twisted beneath him. She pushed against his chest and kicked her legs. Once—just once—she needed a win. It didn't have to be a big one; it just had to be hers. And if losing another piece of herself meant she was saving her daughter, then she would take it as a point in her favor.

For once, she didn't care about the easy way.

His smile spread slowly, with knowing. "Lydia Ortiz wasn't the only one who had a soft spot for you, was she? Marcus Rivera's always had one, too." He spiked a brow tauntingly. "Elian's known it. He's mentioned it before. So, tell me, is it him? Hmm? Is Rivera the stupid son of a bitch that let his dick get in the way of his loyalty?"

"No…" she whispered, breathing hard, fast. "No!" She kicked her legs against his, arching her back. Suddenly, she had energy to spare, to use, to expend. She dug her heels into the mattress, her knees rising and then popping against his hips. Over and over, again and again, harder each time, more frenzied. She screamed, twisting her head from side to side before he slapped a hand over her mouth to silence her.

"Shut up!" he spit, both sets of eyes wide and unblinking. "There's no one to hear you! It's one of the perks of the FBI! When a command's given, it's followed! No questions asked!" He smiled, hard and cold. "But there is the little one to consider. You wake her up and then what happens? Hmm? Maybe little Ava Sophia will take your place, is that what you want? Tell me, Mrs. Sandoval, is that the kind of mother you are—the kind who sacrifices her child to save herself?"

**xxx**

"Anything?" Hunter barreled up to Riley Porter, the chaos around them lost to the panic in his mind. It had been over an hour since Porter had sent a hand full of agents to Mallory's hotel. To search, seek, find—damn it, bring her to be with him like she'd wanted since he'd snuck out of the Federal Building, leaving her alone with barely a goodbye shared between them.

Porter dropped the cell phone into his pocket, heightening Hunter's panic with a shake of his head. "That was Hernandez on the phone. He said the room's clean, nothing's disturbed."

"Something's disturbed," Hunter shot back. "Something has to be disturbed because she's gone."

"Hunter, listen—"

"No, you listen. You need to keep looking, turn that hotel upside down—"

"They are!" Porter hissed. He took a step back, depositing the handheld radio on the sedan's hood. "Let me talk, okay? Just—for once, hear me out? Hernandez has the hotel's security tapes. He's on his way back to the Federal Building right now, and he's personally going to go over every second of footage. If Trask or Stanton—or anyone else—is on those tapes, we'll find them."

"And?" Hunter pushed, wide-eyed. "What good does seeing someone on tape do Mallory? She's out there, damn it! Out there with Stanton, and we don't have any idea where!"

"Yeah? And if she'd gone back to California like I told all of you to do, she wouldn't be missing right now!"

"If she'd—" His voice broke, his anger soaring. "So, this is Mallory's fault?"

"No, it's _your_ fault!" Porter accused, a finger aimed at Hunter. "I let you know what was going on with this case as a courtesy only, it wasn't an invitation to get involved! But true to form, you couldn't believe that anyone else could be even half as competent as you! Admit it, Hunter, you stuck your nose in where it didn't belong! I told you to wait it out in LA, that I would keep you updated! But trusting me never even entered your mind, did it?"

"This doesn't have anything to do with trust!"

"To hell it doesn't!"

"To hell it does!"

"You egotistical son of a bitch!" Porter made a jump toward Hunter, his fists readied in front of him. But before punches could be traded, the ring of Porter's cell phone brought the overwrought men to standstills. "Saved by the fucking bell…" he huffed, digging the phone back out of his pocket. "Count that as the last break you're gonna get from me."

**xxx**

He had made her dress in front of him.

When she tried to go into the bathroom, he stopped her. Told her no, to stay put. He wanted to watch, he said, to know exactly what his trouble was getting him.

And then he sat down on the edge of the bed and leered at her.

Everything about him made Dee Dee's skin crawl—his looks, demeanor, smell. Egotism was a stench that clung to him, sharp and bitter and nauseating, and he flaunted it. He was invincible, the belief shone in his eyes, and before he drove the final nail into her coffin, Dee Dee knew that he wanted her to believe it, too. But the irony was, she already did believe it. It didn't need to be proven to her again. The belief was the foundation her entire existence had rested on throughout the past six years.

"No! No, stop!" Dee Dee dug her heels into the floor, not able to stop herself, only managing to transform her steps into stumbles. His hand was around her arm, tight, and he continued to drag her through the living room toward Avi's bedroom. "Leave her alone!" she continued to beg, as they reached the doorway. "She's just a little girl. She hasn't done anything wrong. Please, whatever you want, I'll do it. All right? Just leave her alone."

He jerked her to a stop, her chest ramming his. She winced and he glowered, his grip around her arm tightening more. "Whatever I want, hmm? That's what you'll do—whatever the fuck I want?" He spiked a brow, Dee Dee backing her promise with a timid nod. "All right. We'll make a deal, if that's what you're sure you want to do." He jerked her again, rougher. "I might be able to be persuaded to leave Elian's faux heir behind. I might even be able to be persuaded to leave her tarnished lineage out of any future conversations your husband and I have. But you do understand, right, that you're the one who'll have to do the persuading?"

Dee Dee swallowed hard, forcing herself to seal her deal with the devil. "Whatever you want," she whispered, tears sparking in her eyes. "I'll leave with you, I'll do whatever you say. Just, please. Leave my daughter alone."

He smiled victoriously, with a hint of pride, touching a fingertip against her bottom lip and tracing from one corner to the other. "That's a good start," he agreed, retracing his path across her lip. "But one misstep by you and our deal is null and void. I'll go straight to Elian, expose your little secret for who she really is. Or, uh. Should I say, who she isn't?"

Dee Dee nodded faintly, timidly. Avi would stay safe, at least as long as she stayed smart. And if he intended to leave her alone—to leave her—then Dee Dee would sacrifice whatever was demanded of her. At least long enough for Hunter to come back, to find Avi. Then they would hide her better, further underground, somewhere that Elian and his damned, soulless robots would never be able to find her. And no matter what else happened, Avi would be safe.

Because Hunter had promised, and she knew he never broke his promises.

"Mama?"

Dee Dee whimpered at the sound of her daughter's sleepy voice, cupping a shaky hand over her mouth. _Go back to sleep, go back to sleep_, she silently begged, as he pulled a revolver out of the waistband of his pants and touched the muzzle's tip to the underside of her chin.

"You have two seconds to shut her up," he directed, releasing his hold on her arm. "She keeps talking, or sticks even one, little toe on the floor, and I won't have any choice but to take her with us. And if I have to do that, well. Then I'll just have to get rid of her, right?" He nodded slowly, calculatedly. "There are some really sick and twisted people in the world, Mrs. Sandoval. You wouldn't believe the amount of money I could get for a child her age."

_Sick and twisted people_. If her heart wasn't lodged in the center of her throat, she would laugh at him. She would spit the words back in his face and sneer at him like Elian always did when threatening her. Because she didn't have to know the sick habits of the other bastards in the world, she just had to look in her own backyard to find the most perverted ones.

Spinning away from him, she hurried into the bedroom, finding Avi sitting up, only half-awake. Her sleepy stare tracked Dee Dee as she made her way to the bed, and she garbled a whispery, "Thirsty," that Dee Dee retaliated to with a hard shake of her head. "Stay in bed," she whispered. "Stay right here until Hunter comes back. Don't move; don't make any noise. It's going to be okay. Everything will be okay. Just stay quiet, Avi, _please_."

**xxx**

"As soon as I drop you off, I'll head back to the Federal Building, see if Hernandez has found anything on the tapes yet." Porter didn't offer Hunter a glance, but kept his stare focused outside the windshield, his eyes narrowing each time a car passed by in the opposite lane.

"The tapes will be a waste of time," Hunter returned. "Mallory left the hotel, we already know that."

"Well, the way I see it, we need a starting point, and that's what the tapes are—a place to start."

"How about we go straight to the finish line and haul Stanton in?" Hunter grumbled. "His phone was found at the site, which means he had to be there. Right? And we both know he'll show up on those tapes with Mallory. How else did her ring end up in that warehouse?"

"We _both_ don't know anything, Hunter," Porter snapped, shooting a sideways glare in Hunter's direction. "Killing all those women, getting his hands on your fiancé… Come on. The guy's just a regular FBI agent, not Houdini."

"Not Houdini…" Hunter groused, snorting a laugh. "Yeah, well. He plays a pretty good game of Hide and Seek, if you ask me."

"And every agent has been put on high alert with the number one priority being to find him. If he's spotted, orders are he's to be apprehended—no questions asked. But guess what? No one's seen him, and other than the call he made the night Ortiz was killed, no one's heard from him, either."

"You ask me, he's been a little too busy to call home. It takes time to murder eight women in cold blood and kidnap another one."

"We don't know that he murdered or kidnapped anyone. Could've been one of Sandoval's men, you know? Someone who's still on the outside, still flying under our radar?"

"Or it could've been Stanton," Hunter returned, spiking a brow. "Face it, Porter. He's the one who's had the easiest access to Sandoval since he was taken into custody. We know he spent time interviewing the prick—one on one time." He shrugged a shoulder. "Ortiz turned off the intercom when she was in with Dee Dee, Stanton could've done the same thing when he was in with Sandoval. That happened, no one would've been able to monitor their conversation, and Stanton would've only had to record the information he wanted recorded, not any private business discussed between Sandoval and him."

"If that's the only evidence you need to reach a guilty verdict then you need to convict me, too," Porter said, directing the sedan through a smooth, right-hand turn. "Stanton isn't the only agent who's interviewed Sandoval. Both Corbin and I have, too. Not to mention a couple agents from the BAU and a Bureau psychologist."

"Then maybe everyone should be investigated," Hunter responded coolly, his eyebrow still arched as he met Porter's stare head-on. "From the top down. Let's finally work this case like it should've been worked from the start."

"Or a better idea?" Porter deadpanned, pulling into the parking lot of Hunter's hotel. "You go back up to your room, check on Dee Dee, and lay low until I tell you otherwise. Or in other words, keep the fuck out of my way and let me do my job." He brought the car to a stop beneath the front archway of the hotel, shifting into park and leaving it to idle as he turned toward Hunter. "Look. I get that there's a lot going on right now. You're worried about Trask, of course, and about Dee Dee. But all that worrying is doing is making you irrational, and after irrational comes sloppy. You do know that, right? Because the way you're acting and thinking right now, you're not able to be of any help to any of us. Not the Bureau, Mallory Trask, or Dee Dee."

"Mallory could already be dead."

Porter hesitated, before agreeing with a nod. "She could already be dead. She could also be halfway to California by now. I mean…" He made a quick glance out of the driver's side window, before turning back toward Hunter. "I don't know anything about your relationship, but I do know my own wife would never put up with what Trask has. Stuck in one hotel while you're in another one with your old partner? Stands to reason, don't you think, that she just had enough? So, she said to hell with both Miami and you and headed home."

"Without her things?" Hunter shot back. "And there's still her engagement ring. In case you forgot, we found it on a dead hooker's finger."

"Could've been lost, stolen—"

"And you could be grasping at straws right now."

"Hey, back off!" Porter hissed back, glares locking. "Look, we all know what you think about the way this case was and has been handled. For the record, you've done a piss poor job of keeping that a secret. But fighting us now isn't going to change the past; it's only going to get you stonewalled. You need to keep that in mind. Corbin's been generous by letting you stay in the loop, but if he gets tired of your attitude and decides to take you out of it, what good will you be to either Mallory or Dee Dee then?"

Hunter fisted a hand around the door handle, scowling. Thinking, damn it, just like he knew Porter was trying to make him start doing. All the crap and screw ups considered, he had found a few allies among the stuffed suits, and he had to admit—even if reluctantly—that Porter was one of them. Which meant Hunter needed to view his advice as being genuine, and as much for his benefit as Mallory and Dee Dee's. He had to finally start playing nice, like a damned team player, or risk getting thrown completely out of the game. Even if it was the last thing his heightened nerves and impatience wanted to do. "All right," he grumbled. "So, what now? Where do we go from here?"

Porter sighed, relaying a tinge of relief. "Like I said, I'm going to head back to the Federal Building, see what's been found on the security tapes." He raised a hand in Hunter's direction, ensuring he would be able to finish without being interrupted. "Then I'll meet with Corbin, bring him up to speed on the warehouses and find out what information he got out of Rueben Sanchez and if he was able to get anything out of Sandoval—"

A knock on Porter's rolled up window brought his promises to an end, as both men inside of the sedan refocused on the agitated looking man peeking through the glass. Porter gave his door a shove, opening it and stepping out of the car as four more agents, all with guns drawn, swarmed it.

"Bureau Director Corbin has been contacted, sir," the agent said, stumbling backwards a step as Porter's door flew past him. "He's on his way here now."

"Corbin?" Porter barked, looking from one flush-faced agent to the next as Hunter rounded the back of the car and came to a stop beside him. "Why's he been called here?"

The agent shook his head, holstering his gun inside of his suit coat. "She's, uh. Well, sir, it seems that she's…gone. Ms. McCall, that is—she's gone. The hotel is being searched right now, but so far, there's no sign of her anywhere."

**xxx**

She didn't know where they were, only that it wasn't somewhere she wanted to be.

It was a motel. She could tell that much about it, or at least that was what she thought it had been once. The building was seedy, rundown, one-story that housed somewhere around twenty rooms, or that was what she guessed based on the number of scuffed and dented doors she skimmed over. The sign at the edge of the parking lot was cracked, half of it missing. There was a capital _T_ visible with a jagged-edge hole separating it from _cal_, next was a capital _P_, another hole, small _m_ and what she thought was an _s_, but the rest of what remained of the sign was splintered plastic, smudges of dirt and more holes.

When he'd shoved her into the hallway at the hotel, it had been empty. There hadn't been a single agent standing guard, no sign that one had ever been there. So, it had been easy for him to make her disappear. They left through the service elevator, making it out of the hotel through a rear door in the deserted kitchen. The back parking lot had been as quiet and empty as the hallway upstairs and kitchen. For a second, running had occurred to her, but only until the sight of a sleepy and tousled Avi flashed in her mind. So, like instructed, she climbed into the backseat of the SUV, the doors on either end of the seat instantly becoming her two newest enemies, child safety locks the weapons they used against her.

And then she'd waited. Anticipated.

Through forty-seven minutes of driving, sixteen stops at either lights or stop signs, eleven right turns and nine left ones.

Turning halfway around in the front seat, he stared back at her. Smiling. His teeth were perfect, she noticed for the first time. Straight and white, without any chips or discoloring, no detectable flaws at all.

"It's important, Mrs. Sandoval, that you take a look at our surroundings. Take a very, very good look."

As instructed, she looked, and her stomach instantly tightened. At one end of the building a woman stood smoking a cigarette. _Prostitute_, Dee Dee immediately knew based on the woman's haggard, overly made-up face and kitschy, barely-there attire. Other bodies slipped in and out of doorways and around the sides of the building, looking just as rough as the woman did, seeming as lost as Dee Dee felt. _Junkies. Pimps. Johns_. All rough-looking and wearing blank expressions, nothing more than empty shells that subsisted off of drugs and decadence versus consciences.

"Around here, you're high class," he said. "A delicacy, you could say. So, do anything—_one_ thing—that I don't like, and I won't even waste my time with a bidding war. I'll just give you away. And then I'll go back to the hotel for your little bastard, bring her here as a bonus." He took in a breath and nodded toward the half-dressed woman slumped against the building, leading Dee Dee's wide-eyed attention back to her. "Your husband owns her. He brought her here from Colombia three years ago, this piece of crap motel has been her home ever since. Twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, she's on the clock. Or, uh, on her back…her knees… Take your pick. Her johns certainly do."

_On her back_. Elian had made the threat to her hundreds of times—enough times that she'd stopped hearing it, really. But now she was looking at it, straight on, face to face, unable to fool herself any longer into believing that it simply was a threat versus something Elian was actually capable of doing.

"Why are we here?" she whispered, her gaze still transfixed outside of the window.

He shook his head and popped open the driver's side door, climbing out of the vehicle and leaving her question—her fears—unanswered.

**xxx**

"You want to explain how you lose a woman who's in your protective custody?"

In past dealings, Hunter had always viewed Riley Porter as too calm and annoyingly rational. The agent always seemed to think before speaking and weigh every option before acting. Nothing was done without premeditation; Hunter had convinced himself that Porter didn't even know what 'off the cuff' meant let alone knew how to react that way. But now, watching Porter bend the wide-eyed agent backwards—practically in half—over the sedan's hood, with his face glowing red, eyes bulging and veins inflated in both his forehead and neck, Hunter was beginning to think maybe—just maybe—he'd been wrong.

Riley Porter had a temper, a healthy one it looked like. And Hunter was glad to see it.

"Incompetent sons of bitches!" Porter hissed into the other agent's flushed face. "You were given one responsibility—_one_! And that was to make sure Dee Dee McCall and her daughter stayed safe! No one was to leave their post without relief being in place first! Wasn't that the order you were given? _Damn it!_ Someone tell me I wasn't talking to myself when I said it!"

Oddly, watching the no holds barred ass chewing unfold didn't give Hunter the slightest urge to join in. He felt satisfied, to a certain extent, playing the part of so far uninvolved backup to Porter's out of control lead man. He didn't know why, really, and he was sure once Porter calmed down he wouldn't understand it, either. After all, Hunter's typical M.O. _was_ to act first and think later.

"We were following orders!" the bowed agent yelped, his hands flattened against the car to stop himself from falling backwards completely.

Porter pulled in a breath, loud and raspy, shooting a glare at Hunter. Both sets of eyes narrowed, questioning the announcement, before Porter turned his attention back on the agent. "Who the fuck gave the order?" he barked, taking a step back and letting the agent straighten.

"Uh…uh…" The agent shoved a hand through the top of his hair, glancing at the other four men lined up, shoulder to shoulder, at the front of the car. "Stephens. He passed on the order," he stammered, sounding all too anxious to pass off some of the heat.

The unlucky man named Stephens cleared his throat, nodding jerkily. He was a sumo wrestler in a three-piece suit. Big, bulky—three hundred pounds if he was an ounce, Hunter estimated—with a thick baldhead, goatee that looked more like a black smudge than purposely grown hair, and beady eyes that were half-hidden behind the swells of fat that doubled as his cheeks. Hunter had seen him before, usually manning the parking lot, staying folded in the front seat of an unassuming, gray four-door sedan that always tilted noticeably toward the side he occupied.

"Yes, sir," Stephens manned up, his voice low.

"You passed on an order for every agent in this hotel to leave his post?" Porter snapped, redirecting his heated attention at the gargantuan agent.

"I passed on an order to assemble in the parking lot," Stephens answered. "Agent Gillespie and I were on duty outside, sir, at our posts as ordered. At approximately fourteen hundred hours, we noticed some suspicious activity at the north end of the lot. It was a van, unmarked, black in color, make was Ford. There were two men inside of the van, two more standing outside of it—two looked to be Hispanic, the third African American and the fourth Caucasian." He shifted his weight, swaying. "We observed them for exactly eleven minutes before Agent Gillespie approached. When they saw him coming, all four men got back into the van and left the scene. Instead of leaving our posts and chasing after them, we called headquarters."

"And?" Porter pressed, still bug-eyed.

"And, sir." Stephens shrugged one massive shoulder. "I was told by Special Agent Meriwether, who said she was passing down direct orders from Bureau Director Corbin, to shut down the hotel—close down the elevators and stairwells, check the credentials of each hotel employee on duty, and search every floor. Orders were to use every available man, and I was told that backup was on the way."

"Did you shut down the hotel as ordered?" Porter asked. "Or did you fuck up that, too?"

"No, sir," Stephens responded. "Or, um. Yes, sir. I mean, we did lock down the hotel, sir. Once it was secured, we began the search. Backup arrived approximately fifteen minutes after the call was placed to headquarters, and within an hour we'd been through the facility from bottom to top. It was when Agents Duffy and Groh returned to their posts on the seventeenth floor that they, uh…they heard the child…the, uh…little girl. She was crying, so Groh knocked on the door, and when no one answered, he went into the room to make sure things were okay. That's when he realized that Ms. McCall wasn't in the suite."

"Let me guess," Hunter grunted. "You didn't search the seventeenth floor until last?"

"Access to the upper floors was shut off," Stephens answered. "It was our belief that Ms. McCall and the child were safe, untouchable."

"Untouchable…" Hunter said, snorting a laugh. His panic was rising; he could feel it beginning to simmer in his gut. He shouldn't have left, damn it. No matter what half-baked orders were given earlier in the night, he should have followed his intuition and told both Porter and Corbin to go to hell. Their fight wasn't his, after all. Their fight was against Sandoval and his corrupt empire. But his fight was Dee Dee—against her, with her. Helping her heal and put the pieces of her life—herself—back to together again.

"Okay." Porter sighed, taking a step backwards. "I want the hotel searched again—every fucking nook and cranny. There's a possibility Ms. McCall got spooked for some reason, or, uh. Maybe she just needed some new scenery. Chances are she's still in the hotel somewhere—"

"She isn't in the hotel!" Hunter growled, his panic reaching full scale. "There's no way she would've left Avi alone!" His eyes widened, his glare targeting Stephens. "Where's the little girl now?"

"Upstairs, sir." He raised a hand to his baldhead. "She won't let anyone touch her, won't talk to anyone, either. She just keeps crying."

_Fuck_. Hunter spun away from the group. If Dee Dee was gone and Avi was unharmed, there was nothing to suspect only the truth to finally acknowledge.

Dee Dee had been right all along. Sandoval had made his move.

**xxx**

Dee Dee's stare met the woman's; she silently pleaded with her. But the thought that she would be the one to help was laughable at best. God only knew how many years she'd spent hoping that someone would help her, so what made Dee Dee think someone who'd been overlooked and forgotten by everyone would suddenly decide to stand on morals and help someone else?

He grabbed Dee Dee's arm, yanking. Leading her across the parking lot, they came to a stop in front of a weathered door marked with a half-oxidized number ten. Twisting her around and shoving her back against the door, he pushed a key into the deadbolt and then twisted the knob. With his fingernails digging into her skin, he dragged her inside and slammed the door shut behind them, locking it.

The room was almost bare; the only furniture inside was a double, iron frame bed and green plastic lawn chair that had been pushed over onto its side. It was dirty, the air stale, stinking of sweat and urine. The carpet and mattress were marked by cigarette burns and unidentifiable stains that time had blackened, and on the outside of the window, all too familiar to Dee Dee, were iron bars.

"If memory serves…" He dropped the key into the front pocket of his slacks. "There's some unfinished business you and I have to take care of."

Dee Dee backed away from him, her backside becoming flush with the tall footboard of the bed. He smiled again, showing his damned, perfect teeth, looking like a wolf ready for its next kill. "No…" she whispered. "No, I don't…I…won't…"

"You won't?" he asked, his eyes widening. "We had a deal, Mrs. Sandoval. Do I need to remind you of the terms? A little something about your bastard—"

She didn't know where the rage came from; she didn't expect it anymore than she could tell he did. But before either realized it, she was in motion, directing it solely at him. Running at him, she shoved a shoulder into his chest, knocking him backwards and out of the path of the door. She fumbled with the uncooperative deadbolt, screaming at the secluded world and its dysfunctional occupants on the other side of the barrier. Begging for help and then demanding it, and when she was ignored, begging again.

He grabbed a handful of her hair, jerking. Twisting her around and shoving her back against the wall, he took hold of her chin. Digging his fingernails into her skin, he thrust her head back—once, twice, three times—dazing her more each time her head slammed into the wall. Black dots obscured her vision and her knees began to buckle, and before she crumpled completely, he looped his arm around her waist. He held her up and dragged her further into the room, her feet sliding over the worn and stained carpet and head hanging forward.

She hit the mattress stomach-first, hard. Her body, nearly limp, bounced upward a good six inches and then another three before she finally settled, sprawled. She turned her head, burying her face in the cushion, the combined stench of urine and mildew assaulting her, burning her nostrils and turning her stomach. She tried to push up, but his hand was still in her hair, holding her down. Kicking, she twisted and flailed, slamming her fists into the rock-hard mattress beneath her.

"You have a loud, fucking mouth!" he spit against the side of her face, giving a final shove to her head.

As soon as he released his hold, she popped up, sucking in a loud breath. But he was back on her in an instant, straddling her waist, his hand locked around her right wrist and tugging her arm upward, over her head.

"No!" she bellowed. "_No!_"

The metal bit into her skin, causing her to she scream as she tried to yank her arm downward and free herself.

"Settle down!" he seethed, his breath hot, searing her skin.

She peeked up, eyeing the handcuffs that connected her right wrist to the wrought iron headboard. Tugging again, and then again, she hiccupped through pleading sobs, the cuffs remaining steadfast. Trapping her. "No, no, no…don't…" she chanted, yanking her arm, pulling. "_No_!"

"Shut up!" he commanded, climbing off of her. The soles of his shoes landed on the floor with a thud, and he dug a cell phone out of his pocket. Pointing the device's antenna at her, he cocked a heavy brow. "You need to think about how much attention you really want to draw to yourself. You got a good look at your neighbors. Did any of them look like the type that would be interested in helping you? Or, what do you think? Are they more the type to take advantage of someone in your predicament?"

Her watery stare targeted the handcuffs again, and she gave a final, feeble tug. On the other side of the wall, she could hear moaning, cursing and shouting, the types of animalistic noises that she knew meant sex wasn't being enjoyed necessarily but carried out as a business transaction. And through the wall on the opposite side of the room, music blared—heavy metal, wordless, the base droning and vibrating.

He was right. They both knew it.

Any attention she drew to herself wouldn't end up being to her benefit.

She slid her legs across the mattress, wrinkles bubbling with her movements. "What're you going to do?"

"To be honest," he answered simply, with a smile, "there's a lot more that I'd like to do. But unfortunately, time isn't on either of our sides right now." He reached for the doorknob, shooting a wink over his shoulder at her. "Don't you worry, though, I'll be back. And when I do come back, trust me. We'll have more than enough time for you to make good on your promise."


	23. Chapter 23

**TWENTY-THREE**

Hunter counted seven agents combing through the hotel suite. Three in what had become Dee Dee's bedroom, three more in the living room, and the seventh—the recipient of the shortest straw who'd been left to fail solo—was in Avi's room wearing a smile that looked far more nervous than comforting and trying to coax a visibly agitated Avi out of bed.

"I tried to pick her up, to remove her from the area," the woman admitted, as Hunter came to a stop beside her at the foot of the bed. She lifted her left hand into view, showing off a puffed, red patch of skin on her wrist. "She bit me."

_Has a lot of her mother in her_, Hunter wanted to retort, to laugh, but instead only shook his head and shooed the woman back toward the doorway and muffled commotion ensuing throughout the rest of the suite. As he stepped up to the side of the bed, Avi cowered against the headboard, her tiny legs folded up in front of her and arms locked tightly around them. With her chin propped on her knees, her soulful eyes tracked his every move. Not watching fearfully, but cautiously. Sizing him up, it seemed, just like she had done the first time they'd met.

"Hey." He greeted her through a whisper, adding just a hint of a smile. She was frightened; it was obvious. Not of him, but of something that her too-young eyes had witnessed during his absence. Sighing, he lowered onto the edge of the bed, facing her. His smile broadened fleetingly, before mirroring her pudgy lips and drooping into a frown. "Think we can have a talk, you and me?"

She took in a breath, contemplating his request. Timidly, she nodded, her chin sliding back and forth across the tops of her knees.

"Good," Hunter responded, nodding along with her. "Because I need your help. Your mom, do you know where she went?"

Pearl-like teeth emerged from beneath her upper lip, sinking into her bottom lip. She hesitated again, before answering him with a shake of her head.

"No? You don't know where she went?"

Another shake of her head confirmed her original answer, and she bit harder into her lip.

"Okay," Hunter said, nodding. "That's okay. Were you asleep when she left?"

Her gaze momentarily darted to the doorway and then returned to Hunter, and she shook her head again.

"No?" Hunter studied her carefully, for signs and assurances. Signs of trauma and assurances that whatever transpired in the suite had left her—God willing—less rather than more scathed. "Do you know when your mom left, was it just her? Was she all by herself, or was somebody with her?"

She exhaled hard through her nose and ran her tongue across her bottom lip. Not confirming what Hunter already knew in his gut, only staring noncommittally.

"Somebody came here while I was gone, didn't they?" he said, coercing a nod out of her with a firm nod of his own. "Avi, honey, can you tell me…this somebody, was it a boy like me, or a girl like Mama?" He knew who it was; every FBI agent within a one thousand mile radius of the four-star hotel knew who it was. It was the one person whom Riley Porter had sworn wasn't Houdini, but who was threatening to steal the famed escapologist's number one ranking from him—and deservedly so. Gideon Stanton was playing it smart—too fucking smart. While the FBI was running in circles chasing their damned tails, he'd spent his time creating the perfect diversion. Eight dead bodies, a confiscated cell phone and one missing fiancé were enough to captivate anyone's attention for a fair amount of time—for what had turned out to be more than enough time.

More than enough time to make the two largest portions of his heart disappear.

Through another nibble on her bottom lip, Avi jutted a finger at Hunter. And as he whispered, "A boy, like me?" she backed her implicit answer with a nod.

"That's good, honey. You're doing real good." He flattened a hand on the mattress, leaving it stretched out between them. "Did you see his face, what he looked like?" He touched his hand to the top of his head, his eyebrows rising. "How about his hair? Was it light like mine? As short as mine, or was it longer?"

Rolling forward and balancing herself on the balls of her feet, she leaned in close to him, staring up with widened, intent-filled eyes. Frustration made an appearance on her face, a passing sweep that he noticed. She had information to share—Hunter knew even from their brief time together that she was rarely at a loss for something to say. But he also knew that she was introspective, having just enough maturity to be able to weigh her words somewhat carefully in order to figure out which needed to be said to get her point across. Something was different, though. Whether it was intimidation, shock, or trauma, he couldn't figure out. He only knew that whatever it was she wanted to say, she purposely wasn't saying it.

"Avi." He forced a smile; one that he hoped didn't look nearly as impatient—as desperate—as he felt. "You can talk to me, honey. It's okay. Even if somebody told you not to say anything, maybe that you'd get in trouble if you did, it's okay to tell me everything you remember. In fact, it's really, really important that you do tell me." _Talk to me_, he silently urged, his smile trembling but holding. Damn it. He hated cases where it was a child's recollection he was left to rely on. Not that in most circumstances they weren't far more honest than adults, but they were also more easily frightened and intimidated into silence. Experience had taught him just what a scary place the world could be when viewed through haunted, misunderstanding eyes. Just like it had taught him that monsters were all too real in immature minds. "You're not going to get in trouble if you tell me. I promise, Avi—"

"Shh," she commanded softly, her voice barely a whisper. "Hafta be quiet. Mama said so."

"Mama…" Hunter whispered in response, relief and excitement tangling and thumping in his chest. "What else did Mama say? Did she say anything else?"

She swallowed hard, nodding.

"Okay, good. Good, honey. Tell me what she said. What else did Mama tell you?"

Her gaze shifted to the doorway for a split second. Twisting her lips to the side, exhaling, she devoured Hunter's eager stare again. "Not 'posed to get outta bed," she whispered tentatively. "Not 'til you comed back."

"You did a good job." He shifted on the bed, rounding his shoulders and lowering his head to be closer to hers. "The man who came here tonight, do you know if Mama let him inside? Did he knock on the door, or come inside by himself?"

She shrugged, her shoulders rising to meet her ears. "He goed in the bathroom," she said lowly, only a notch above her cautious whisper. "Don't know why, 'cause he didn't turn on the light. Just made it stay dark in there 'til Mama comed."

"And what'd he do when Mama came?"

Her tiny fists balled on the tops of her shins, her eyes darkening. "Gived her a spanking," she said. "Same like Papa does sometimes. Right…" She uncurled one fist, touching a finger to the side of her face. "Here. Mama falled down, then they goed in her room."

_Damn it. Damn it. Damn it_. Dee Dee had been overpowered and out of options—again. And it was Hunter who'd forced it on her even more than the son of a bitch Stanton. He left her even though he knew he shouldn't, and just like he did six years earlier, he let the damned Feds start making the decisions. He put Dee Dee's and Avi's safety—their lives—in the stuffed suits' incompetent hands, and after he promised himself—swore to Dee Dee—that he would never be that stupid again. So, how could he expect her to forgive him for breaking his promise and letting her down a second time?

"Okay, honey," he said, his tone precautious. "After Mama and the man went into her room, did you hear anything else? Anything they said to each other?"

She paused markedly, uncomfortably; crimson slowly spreading over and shading her cheeks. "Mama cried," she admitted, her gaze dropping and targeting a specific patch of the mattress that was buried beneath a twisted clump of blankets. "I heared. And then…then…I…" She glanced up guiltily, tears glistening in her eyes. "Hadda accident."

With a sigh, Hunter opened his arms, and it was the only prompting Avi needed to lunge away from the headboard and scramble onto his lap. She settled in, balling against his bulkier form as his arms wrapped around her, the dampness from her underwear instantly soaking through his jeans. "Accidents are okay, right?" he whispered against the top of her head. "Everybody has them."

"The man, he said Mama hadda…batstard…" she continued, ignoring Hunter's attempt at soothing. "That's when Mama comed in here." Sliding the side of her face against his chest, she glanced up. "She telled me to be very, very quiet and don't get outta bed."

It was too much, damn it. Too much hurt and uncertainty and confusion, too much for Dee Dee, far too much for her daughter. And, Jesus, as exhausted as Hunter already felt by all of it, he couldn't imagine how Dee Dee or Avi were even managing to stay upright. They had every right to give up, both of them. Every right to lie down for and stop fighting the son of a bitch that was unfairly controlling their lives.

"Hunter."

He turned his head slightly, tightening his grasp on Avi as he glanced back over his shoulder.

"How is she?" Porter asked, nodding toward the balled child half-hidden in Hunter's lap.

"Not hurt," Hunter answered. "At least not physically."

Porter sighed, nodding again, relief momentarily easing the tension in his face. "I just talked to Corbin. He wants us back at the Federal Building. The two of you will be safer there."

_Safe_. It was a word that had lost all meaning for Hunter. It was something said in order to impart comfort, but not something that anyone seemed to have the faintest idea how to achieve. The unfair truth was, Dee Dee and her daughter had been safer in Coral Gables than they'd been since being dragged out of it. At least there, with Sandoval calling the shots, they'd known what to expect, what harm would be inflicted and what wouldn't be. And there was safety in routine; there was a certain comfort to be found in it. Even when the routine was perverted and wrong, if it was yours, you eventually learned the survival skills needed in order to endure it.

"What about Dee Dee and Mallory?" Hunter asked, keeping his voice low, his tone even and calm as he continuously stroked Avi's back.

"We're checking the hotel's surveillance cameras. Like Stephens said, the public elevators and stairwells were shut down. But." He cleared his throat, shifting his weight from one leg onto the other. "No one thought to shut down the service elevator. There's one at the end of the hallway on every floor, goes only one place—the kitchen. Unfortunately, the kitchen closes at eleven P.M., and there's an exit that leads to the back, employee parking lot. We're assuming that's the way they went out, and if we're right—"

"No one would've seen them," Hunter finished, unable to stop himself from chuckling. _The damned stuffed suits_. They walked around caught up in an air of superiority, feeling superior. They flaunted their statuses like they should impress everyone else. But the truth was, when the titles were striped away, they were just mortals, just as capable of screwing up as everyone else. And in Dee Dee's case, that capability had been turned into an art form.

"We're going to find them, Hunter. We found Dee Dee once, we'll find her again." As Hunter's glare hardened on him, daring him to defend himself and the damned Bureau one more time, Porter shook his head. Conceding, finally, even if gracelessly. "We messed up," he admitted. "And even though it isn't any sort of consolation, we are doing everything possible to correct our mistake."

"You're right," Hunter grumbled, climbing to his feet. "It isn't a consolation." He turned, resituating Avi against his shoulder as he faced down Porter. "She heard Stanton say something to Dee Dee about her b-a-s-t-a-r-d." He relayed the message cryptically, his explanation for doing so given through a tilt of his head toward the child in his arms. "I took a sample of Dee Dee's DNA to Ortiz, but both Ortiz and Corbin said tests wouldn't be done on Avi, that there wasn't a reason for it. But it looks like they were done, anyway. We need to find out how that mess up happened and who all the results were shared with."

Porter shook his head, openly confused. "Is there something else going on that I don't know about?"

"Something Dee Dee and I were promised no one would find out about," Hunter returned icily, rounding the end of the bed. He came to a stop at the doorway; Avi huddled against his shoulder. "On our way to the Federal Building, we're going to make a stop by the jail. And once we get there, Corbin's rules and promises can be damned as far as I'm concerned. I'm going to talk to Marcus Rivera. Just him and me, one on one." He cocked an eyebrow, glaring. "No audience and no intercom. This time, it's my rules we're playing by."

**xxx**

The sounds surrounding her had become deafening.

The moans of junkies as they started their upward climbs toward another high, the faked squeals of prostitutes and curses of johns as they shared an expensive hour together, and the music in the adjoining room—booming and vibrating and echoing, hard music that was screamed rather than sang.

Crouched beside the wrought iron frame bed, Dee Dee used both hands to tug on the half-rusted spindle the handcuffs were locked around. She pulled and grunted and whimpered, using her full weight to try and dislodge either one end or the other of the bar from the headboard.

"Come on, come on, come…on…" she half-whispered, half-sobbed. Her sweaty fingers slipped off the bar, causing her to lose her precarious balance and crash to the floor. Her knees took the force of her fall and her right arm was pulled taut, her wrist screaming in protest as the metal bracelet scraped and dug into her skin. The bed looked like just a hair stouter than a light breeze could cause it to collapse, so why in the hell wouldn't it budge for her? Just one spindle was all she needed loose, not the entire, damned frame. And in the big picture, she didn't think one half-rusted spindle was asking for too much.

_"You're weak, Dee Dee. Admit it."_

She flinched, Elian's voice booming above all the other noises that were rattling throughout the room. She could hear his smugness, his belief that he was right. And why wouldn't he believe it? It wasn't like she'd ever given him a reason to believe anything else. With him, she had been weak. Whether out of fear, or exhaustion, or simple confusion, she didn't know the reason. She didn't care to figure it out. Knowing the why wouldn't change anything, anyway. Not the past, not her.

_"Say it. You're my little mouse."_

She blinked back tears, trying to erase Elian's voice. She was so tired of losing. She was tired of being weak, of being mocked and controlled and believing him. She wasn't sure who she wanted to be anymore, if she even wanted to be anyone. But she did know that if she were going to try to go on, to be someone again, she didn't want to keep being who Elian thought she should be. She didn't like that her, she never had. She'd just never been strong enough to stand up against her.

She rose up onto her knees, her teeth gritted. Balancing on her haunches, she grabbed hold of the spindle again, a grunt preceding her initial tug. She pulled again, and again, grunts morphing into growls, and growls into screams.

**xxx**

There wasn't a lot of time to waste doing homework, and a quick once-over Marcus Rivera's rap sheet was all Hunter found he had the patience to give it.

Surprisingly, there wasn't anything in the three-page document that screamed out deviant, only misdemeanor charges that started accumulating around the time the forty-six-year-old hit his mid-teens. Possession, intent to sell, distribution and one 'possession of a firearm' charge that was dropped before either Rivera or his public defender had to exert the effort groveling to a judge. There were two stints in juvenile facilities, a couple dozen or more other arrests that didn't even amount to a year's time served, but for the most part, Marcus Rivera seemed like more of an annoyance than any type of threat.

At least that was how the jackass read on paper.

"I've heard stories about you, you know." Riley Porter stood in front of the two-way mirror, his lanky frame tensed. "And none of them have been particularly good ones. Keep in mind, Hunter, Marcus Rivera is in Federal custody. So, if you're going in there to start some kind of barroom brawl—"

Hunter cut him off with a snort. His eyes narrowed as he peeked through the window, eyeing a cuffed Rivera. Admittedly, the creep wasn't living up to Hunter's expectations. Rivera didn't look like the type Dee Dee would turn to for either friendship or comfort. Maybe he wasn't anything more than a petty thief at heart, but at first glance he sure as hell fit into Sandoval's world. He was buff—a gorilla in an orange jumpsuit—with beady, unreadable eyes and a scowl contorting his otherwise boyish features. There wasn't anything about his demeanor that Hunter found even remotely trustworthy, only suspicious. In the way his gaze continuously darted around the room, he shifted and resituated in his seat, and tapped the chain connecting his cuffed hands against the tabletop, creating a grating rhythm-less beat.

"All I want are answers," Hunter responded gruffly—and not entirely truthfully. Answers were what he needed, but what he really wanted was Rivera's heart squeezed between his clammy palms. Maybe to some extent, by some stretch of the word, he had been Dee Dee's only ally—although an inconsistent one—amongst uncountable enemies. But still, Rivera's main responsibility had been to ensure that Dee Dee remained trapped in Sandoval's depraved world, and he'd made damn sure that he lived up to the expectations placed on him.

"We've been working around the clock for days on this guy. Trying like hell to get him to tell us something." Porter shook his head, before shrugging. "What makes you think you're the one who'll be able to finally convince him to open up?"

"Because I know more about the prick than what's written on his rap sheet," Hunter returned. "And that means I know the questions to ask that'll get the answers we need."

He turned, ignoring Porter's obvious confusion, and made the few steps to the interview room door. Grasping the knob, he hesitated. Became stuck, was more like it, with Dee Dee's past confession replaying in his mind.

_"He was nice to me. He treated me like I was actually a person, like I was intelligent and interesting."_

No matter what the truth was that the rest of the world or he saw, Dee Dee saw Rivera as a friend. At a time when she'd lost herself completely, he'd given a tiny portion back to her. Rivera made her believe that he cared about her, saw her as being someone instead of something, and in the process returned to her—for a short period of time, at least—a fraction of her self-worth. And as grateful as Hunter knew he should feel toward the prick for doing that, all he could manage to feel was jealousy.

There wasn't even anger like he'd thought he would feel, no measure of contempt at all.

Only jealousy.

Pushing into the room, he came to a stop just over the threshold and shoved the door closed behind him. Staring down Rivera, Hunter didn't flinch, or blink, or give any outward indication that he gave a damn about him. He let his stare turn cold and reveal his feelings—the son of a bitch could fry as far as he was concerned. Maybe Dee Dee had convinced herself to trust him, but Hunter never would.

"Who are you?"

Hunter grunted a laugh, knotting his arms across his chest. "Name's Hunter," he said. "Lieutenant Rick Hunter, LAPD."

Rivera's expression fell; his nervousness mounted visibly. He looked like a damned mouse caught in a trap, with the hungry cat closing in and making it clear that he fully intended to take advantage of his prey's debilitated state.

"Dee Dee was my partner," Hunter continued, stepping away from the door. He came to a stop on the opposite side of the table, his narrow-eyed stare not wavering from Rivera's apprehensive one. "She's also someone I care a lot about."

"Look. I already told the Feds—"

"I don't give a damn what you told them," Hunter growled, leaning over the table and supporting himself on stiffened arms. "I only care about what you're going to tell me."

"Go to hell," Rivera sneered, shaking his head. "I've said all I'm going to."

"You haven't said crap."

"Yeah, and I'm still breathing. You connect the dots."

Hunter slammed a hand down on the tabletop, causing Rivera to jump and straighten in his chair. "She's gone, you prick! Sandoval's dogs got to her, and I want to know where they took her!"

Rivera's eyes widened, what Hunter interpreted as both shock and fear discoloring them. Slowly, he began to shake his head, stammering a less than believable, "I don't know."

"Tell me, you son of a bitch!"

"I don't know!"

"The hell you don't!"

Rivera heaved in a breath, his brawny chest inflating. He shook his head, his gaze dropping away from Hunter's fiery glare. "Just let it be done," he said lowly, with resignation. "Whether it's now or later, it's going to happen. Even Dee Dee gets that."

Jealousy be damned, all Hunter suddenly felt was the anger. The prick talked about Dee Dee like he knew her—fucking _knew_ her. What she thought, believed… But he didn't know her. Damn it, he _didn't_. Their past was marked by coercion, not choice. Which meant Rivera didn't know anything.

Did he?

Hunter straightened, never breaking their stare. Jesus. What _did_ Rivera know? It would have been a different Dee Dee he encountered, the Dee Dee that, admittedly, Hunter didn't know. Inside the damned prison at Coral Gables, what had she been like? Who had she been? Someone Hunter would be able to recognize, or someone entirely different? Someone who, between the two of them, only Rivera would actually know both inside and out?

And the thought—the truth behind it—hurled Hunter right back into the pit of jealousy.

"Talk to me," he said—begged. He pulled the chair away from the table, sitting down.

"I don't have anything to say."

"There's a lot you need to say," Hunter persisted. "Listen to me. They took her; she's gone. And it's not just her. They took another woman, too, another police officer from LA."

"But they didn't…" He straightened, shaking his head. "What about Avi? Is she—"

"Safe," Hunter confirmed. "For now. But you and I both know she's in danger."

"In danger? Why would you think…" The realization ignited in Rivera's eyes, as blatant as guiltily. He shook his head again, slowly at first and then harder. Adamantly. "No. No way. It's impossible."

"Not according to Dee Dee," Hunter responded leadingly, nodding.

"What'd she tell you?"

"Everything."

Rivera chuckled lowly, with disbelief. "You're lying."

"DNA doesn't lie."

"Maybe not," Rivera returned cockily, with a hint of relief. "But you have to have it to get answers from it, and you don't have mine."

Hunter took in a breath, pushing back in the chair. "You're right, I don't have your DNA," he agreed, once again hooking his arms across his chest. "But I do have solid proof that Avi isn't Sandoval's biological child. And see, the problem we have is that we don't know whether or not Sandoval knows what you and I both know. But assuming he does, how long do you think it'll take before the names of potential fathers start getting tossed around?" He shrugged a shoulder. "You help me, maybe I can help you. I can make sure that when those names start getting tossed, yours isn't one of them."

Rivera bit down on his bottom lip, chewing. His eyes narrowed to slits, as he looked Hunter up and down. "You hear about Rueben? About what happened to him because he opened his mouth?"

"Won't happen to you. I won't let it."

"You can't stop it."

Hunter lifted a brow, agreeing but also making it clear that Rivera's safety wasn't at the top of his priority list. Que sera sera, reap what you sow, karma's a bitch—in his biased opinion, it all applied. "Without your help, I can't stop Sandoval from hurting Dee Dee or Mallory Trask."

Rivera's gaze dropped. Whether out of guilt or indifference, Hunter couldn't tell, but he prayed it was the first. He prayed that Dee Dee was right, that her intuition was still as spot-on as he'd once known it to be. She believed that Marcus Rivera cared about her. Maybe in a skewed way, but he still cared, and Hunter needed him to; he needed him to be less of a monster than Elian Sandoval was.

"It isn't fair that either one of them are caught in the middle of this," Hunter pushed. "It wasn't fair in the beginning to Dee Dee, and it isn't fair now."

Rivera snorted a laugh, his impassive stare rising to meet Hunter's pleading one. "Feds and cops…" He laughed again, mockingly. "You think you're so smart, that you have all of the answers. But the truth is, you're just a bunch of clueless assholes. If nothing else proves that, the past six years sure as hell do."

Hunter straightened, before reclining cautiously in the chair. His arms locked across his chest again, his biceps flexed. "What's that mean?"

"It means you're idiots, all of you."

Hunter lifted a shoulder in a lazy shrug, half-agreeing, half-pushing for more of an explanation.

"You think this was some kind of fluke—any of it?" Rivera asked, his eyes widening and driving home just how stupid he'd already concluded Hunter was. "The only thing that happened by chance was that Dee Dee got in the way in that fucking warehouse. But the rest of it…" He took in a breath, his expression matter of fact. "Someone had control of every part of it."

"All of…what?" Hunter asked, with a shake of his head that conveyed both misunderstanding and curiosity.

"Six years ago John Diego Velasquez just happens to show up in the states for the first time in, how long? And after that, the concidences just kept coming. Right? The Feds get a call that just happens to lead them to the exact site where Trask's body was dumped, and then they get a random tip about a house in Malibu…no one even tried to get rid of evidence…" He shrugged stiltedly. "What? You think the Velasquez's or Mr. Sandoval got where they are by being sloppy? Or, what, you think those were all just lucky breaks?" He chuckled contemptuously, through a roll of his eyes. "You really are stupid if that is what you believe."

"Okay," Hunter responded warily. "Then tell me what I should believe instead."

"You figure it out." He glanced over Hunter's left shoulder, his stare hitting the two-way mirror. "I've already said more than I should've."

**xxx**

The bar broke loose, sending her toppling backwards. She landed on her back, her knees in the air and the bar clutched in both hands. Taking only a second to get her bearings, she slid the locked bracelet off the rod and scrambled to her feet, dusting off her hands on the back of her blue jeans.

Dee Dee's gaze shot to the front door, the roar of a revving engine rattling the window in the room. The door had been locked from the outside when she'd been left. Even through the blast of music from next door, she'd heard the distinct click of the deadbolt engaging. So, it was a useless escape route. Unless she felt like revisiting the past and wasting the next however many hours banging on it, begging someone to unlock it and let her out.

She spun around, heading toward the closed door that connected her room to the adjoining one next door. The music still blared, the door jarring in time with the beat. Hesitantly, she leaned in closer, settling her ear against the thin wood. Listening, concentrating, she tried to separate sounds from the music—footsteps, voices, moans and groans. But all she heard were screams that were somehow considered singing and thumps of the too loud bass.

She gripped the doorknob in her hand, but she didn't turn it. "For God's sake, just do it…" she whispered. If she was going to get out, it was the only way she'd been left with. Taking in a breath, she pushed the door open a fraction and peeked inside. The curtains were darker than the ones in her room, drawn together across the front window. A thin sliver of light sneaked beneath the drapes' uneven hem, creating a hazy glow that lit the lower half of the room. Diffused beams shot into and stabbed the dimness like daggers, while dust sparkled, air born and twinkling. Across the room, in the furthest corner, was a double bed identical to the one Dee Dee had spent the better part of the morning battling. Against the wall that separated the two rooms, an old dresser sat, the drawers missing and a stereo system set up on the dust-covered top. From two, shoebox-size speakers the music screamed, one speaker shoved up against and facing the wall, the other turned into the room.

A rustling generated from the bed, the noise barely a whisper in contrast to the music's volume. Dee Dee peeked around the edge of the door, her eyes squinted to combat the vague lighting. Just her luck, she'd interrupted a hooker with her latest customer. So, what was her next move supposed to be? Was there a protocol? Did she apologize for not knocking, or maybe promise not to look and run through the room with her eyes covered? Maybe she shouldn't say anything at all? If she pretended not to see them, maybe they could pretend not to see her, either.

She opened the door a little further, turning sideways and sliding halfway through. Her foot kicked something on the floor, moving it. Glancing down, she saw a shoe lying on its side. It was a man's dress shoe, lace-up, looking like leather, and dirty. There was mud caked on the sole just in front of the heel, and dust covered the toe. _Great_. Not only was she interrupting her neighbors' illegal tryst, but she also had to be careful during what she had hoped would be an unobtrusive escape not to trip over any of the clothing they'd obviously been too preoccupied to care about where they dropped.

She stuck her head and shoulders through the doorway, keeping the door in front of her as a shield. She caught sight of the two forms sprawled on the bed, before her gaze drifted to the floor again and the syringe discarded to the left of the bed. A shiny needle poked out of the plastic body, liquid glistening on its tip.

"…Go…away…"

The voice reached her sounding more like a croak than human. Dee Dee's eyes bugged and lips fluttered, and she glanced from one unmoving form to the other, trying to determine which had spoken. Neither moved, not to lift their head and look at her, or change positions, or make the effort to get up from the bed and chase her back out of the room. They both remained still, tangled loosely in the center of the bed with the man's right leg dangling over the edge from the knee down, the sole of his shoeless foot pointed at her.

"Are you…hurt?" Dee Dee asked, not sure if she'd spoken loud enough to be heard over the music. She waited, and when she didn't get a response one way or the other, she stepped further inside. "Are you okay? Because I…I just, uh. I need to…" She motioned toward the front door with a jerky tilt of her head. "I don't want to bother you, or…or, uh." Or, what? Interrupt their highs, or butt in on their business transaction? She didn't want to be a nuisance, she just really needed to get the heck out of Dodge, and their door had become particularly essential in her doing that.

"Oh, God. God, no. No, no, no…no. Not…you. It's not supposed to be you."

**xxx**

The prick had to have a soul.

Buried somewhere beneath the Steroid-enhanced brawn, there had to be something that resembled a conscience.

Dee Dee believed there was, and Hunter needed it proven to him so that he could believe it, too.

"So, is this who you are, Rivera?" he asked, not missing a beat as he paced from one end of the eight-by-ten room to the other. "The kind of man who would sacrifice a woman and child just to save himself?"

Rivera sneered at him, before reclining cautiously in the straight-back chair. He hiked one leg over the other, his cuffed hands resting in his lap. "In case you haven't figured it out yet, mine's a cutthroat lifestyle," he responded, more matter of fact than with any hint of emotion. "And today, I don't feel like getting my throat cut."

Hunter came to a stop at the corner of the table. He chuckled, nodding, glaring. "You're a real standup guy, aren't you? Or, no…" He shook his head, silently correcting his assumption. "How about whipped? I think that's more like it. Sandoval have you whipped, Rivera?"

"Maybe it's that I'm smart."

Rivera was starting to get fired up, Hunter could tell. _Good_. Insulting a prick's manhood always pissed him off more than insulting his integrity. It was a tactical trick of the trade that Hunter had put into play too many times to count—get in a few, sarcastic jabs about the package, and most perverts would start spouting the truth just to prove him wrong. "Smart, right," Hunter continued to mock. "Smarter than me, is that what you mean? Because take a look at our situation. Which one of us is wearing state-issued jewelry right now?"

"Yeah? And which one of us has what the other one wants?"

_Touché_, Hunter's smirk retorted. "All right," he said, stopping in the center of the table. "Then explain it to me. Tell me what makes me so stupid."

"You're stupid because you let yourself get played. Right from the start."

Hunter pulled the chair away from the table, sitting down. "By who?"

"You tell me."

He shrugged a shoulder. Not having a confirmed answer, only a six-year-old hunch.

They fell silent, letting time tick by, each minute that passed causing the knot in Hunter's stomach to grow. They were losing time, time that neither Dee Dee nor Mallory had to spare. For all they knew, Sandoval could already have both of them on a boat headed for Cuba, or on a plane speeding toward Colombia, or, Christ. Buried too many feet underground to ever be dug up.

"Come on, Rivera," he prodded. "I know this isn't who you are. All this time, you've taken care of Dee Dee. She told me about everything you did to help her, about…" He exhaled weightily. "It's obvious you care about her, so help her out one more time."

Rivera slumped in the chair, staring down at his cuffed hands. Contemplating Hunter's plea, Hunter could tell, but taking too damned long to do it.

"She's never told Sandoval that Avi could be yours," Hunter said. "She gave you her word that she wouldn't, and she never has. So, do this for her, Marcus. Repay the favor, help her now."

He grunted with frustration, through a shake of his head. "I've already done more than I should've," he admitted hesitantly, his gaze shooting over Hunter's shoulder and targeting the two-way mirror. "Sure as hell enough to bury myself."

Hunter nodded slowly, urging him to keep going, keep confessing. Damn it, to finally say something that would help Dee Dee. "I'm just asking you to help her out this one last time. Tell me where she is, Rivera. Where would Sandoval have her taken?"

Rivera shifted in the chair. "Could be a lot of places."

"Give me some locations."

"You find her, I'm dead."

"I find her, I'll make sure that doesn't happen."

He snorted a laugh. "Like you'll be able to stop it."

Hunter watched him for a moment, scrutinized him. He looked expectant but not frightened, resigned, but not regretful. Oddly, as much as one of Sandoval's soulless automatons could look, he looked at peace. "It was you, wasn't it?" he asked, Rivera's dark stare colliding with his knowing one. "Son of a bitch. You put Landry onto Dee Dee, didn't you? Steered him in her direction?" He pointed a finger at Rivera's expressionless face, nodding his belief. "You made the call to Riley Porter. _You_ made sure the FBI would get to Sandoval before he could get Dee Dee out of the country."

Rivera pushed back in the chair, the rubber soles of his shoes sliding noisily across the floor. He shook his head, just faintly, unconvincingly. "I don't know what in the hell you're talking about. Fucking nuts, that's what you are."

Hunter nodded again, both his understanding and jealousy hitting their peaks. "Come on, Rivera. Don't stop caring about her now, not now. Not after you've already sacrificed everything for her."

**xxx**

The further inside the room she walked, the heavier the air felt. It was weighted, too thick to breathe in, too pungent to swallow. Dee Dee moved through the haze, feeling like she was floating rather than touching the floor. She came to an unsteady stop at the end of the bed, her hands hovering over the iron footboard. Not touching, merely trembling above it.

Their stares met, both curious, questioning. Even in the dim lighting, the pastiness of her skin was noticeable. Her eyes were sunken, lips cracked, and her hair tangled, blood dried in the strands above her left ear. She was definitely worse for the wear, looking like she was only a few syringes at most away from making the transition from lethargy to death.

Dee Dee backtracked slowly, through stumbles. Bumping a hip into the dresser, she reached behind her and slapped at the stereo until the music stopped. Even with the noises around them, the groans and shouts and car engines, inside the room, the sudden quiet was deafening.

"You're not supposed to be here."

"Why are…you…" Dee Dee shook her head. "How?"

Mallory's eyelids fluttered sleepily. Turning her head slowly, she led Dee Dee's stare to the unmoving form beside her. "He's dead. I don't know…how, or…when."

Dee Dee walked back toward the bed, her steps hesitant. Stepping up to the footboard again, she craned her neck, peeking into the man's face. His skin was paler than Mallory's, void of any color. His eyes, half-open, stared lifelessly, and his jaw had gone slack, his mouth hanging open.

"I woke up," Mallory explained. "He was here. I don't know…when. I can't…" She scrunched her eyes closed, fighting down a swallow. "Everything's foggy."

"Drugs," Dee Dee assured, shooting a quick glance at the syringes. "It could be a number of things. Elian isn't picky."

"…Sandoval…" Mallory slurred, nodding weakly. "The hell are you doing here? They weren't supposed to find you."

"Why are you here?"

Mallory chuckled faintly, with effort. "Because of you. They thought they could get me to tell them where you were hiding. Irony of it all is, no one would tell me."

"Do you know… Who is he?"

"FBI," Mallory answered. She gave the man's leg an uncoordinated kick, whimpering softly. "Jesus. Get him away. He's…I can't…" She rolled away from the body, burying her face in the mildewed mattress.

"It's okay," Dee Dee whispered, reaching for Mallory's ankle but not making contact. "Everything's gonna be okay."

"Okay?" Mallory peeked at her with one, squinted eye. "In case you hadn't noticed, I'm in bed with a dead man. And…God. Now that you're here, he's not even the worst of it."

Dee Dee made a quick glance around the room, her search coming up as empty as it had every other time. "Can you get up?" she asked. "We need to get out of here, out of the motel. Then we can find somewhere to hide. Find a phone." The sight of Mallory impaired and immobile sent a wave of déjà vu bolting through her, leaving her reeling, feeling sick. It might as well be Jordan Trask in front of her again, because the likelihood of getting Mallory up and moving at the pace Dee Dee needed her to seemed as long of a shot as it had the day she'd begged Jordan to fight alongside her instead of give up.

"Get out?" Mallory coughed, through a weak shake of her head. "Did you see where we are? There's nowhere to go from here."

"There's always somewhere to go."

"Really? Then you want to explain the last six years?" She moaned apologetically and rolled onto her back, her stare finding Dee Dee's. "That was… I'm sorry."

Dee Dee shook her head, dismissing both the comment and Mallory's apology. "They're going to kill us if we don't do something."

"They'll kill us if we do. Look, you want to try for the great escape, go ahead. There's no way I can go anywhere."

"It's the drugs."

"I don't know what they've been giving me. It's been three times. The first time it was, uh…two men. They're the ones who brought me here. But the other times…I think…it was a woman." She ran a hand shakily through the side of her mussed hair. "It's hard to think, though, to…remember."

"It's probably a sedative, something to knock you out. It can mess with your mind…your memory."

"Hmm," Mallory grunted. "That a guess, or you talking from experience?"

Dee Dee shot down Mallory's probing with a shake of her head. It didn't matter anyway, did it? What she knew, or how she knew it? It was her story, her secret. And it didn't have to be shared, even if personal experiences were threatening to be.

Mallory exhaled deeply, resigned. "Why'd you have to come back?" She closed her eyes, whimpering more with self-pity than discomfort. "I almost had him, you know. I'd almost convinced him to stop looking for you." Her expression crumpled, her eyes closing. "God. Why does it have to be you that he can't fall out of love with?"

Dee Dee's eyes widened fleetingly, with surprise. What did she say? What in the hell—in love? With her? _Him?_ She shook her head, with as much confusion as disagreement. "No," she stuttered. "No. He…he isn't..." Oddly, having a corpse for their audience was quickly becoming the least uncomfortable part of talking about Hunter's love life. She didn't know Mallory Trask, and what little information about her that she'd been able to get out of Hunter had had to be drug out of him, syllable by syllable. They were close, according to Charlie, with a half-hearted agreement from Hunter. But other than that, all Dee Dee really knew was the non-controversial general consensus—she was a good cop.

"He's probably going crazy right now," Mallory said. "Worrying about you, scared he won't be able to find you again."

"He has to know you're gone, too."

"Yeah?" She laughed softly, tearfully. "How would he know that? He would've had to known where I was first, and he didn't. He never once asked where I was staying, if I was… He never asked because he was too busy worrying about you."

Not to point out the obvious, Dee Dee wanted to retort, but there had to be a better time and place to hash out whatever jealousy issues Mallory Trask was wrestling with. At the very least, someplace that didn't have the distasteful bonus of a cadaver in full rigor as part of its décor. "Look. There's not a whole lot that's going to matter if we don't get out of here. So, uh. Can you get up? If I help you—"

"Is this what it was like with Jordan?" Mallory blinked sleepily, tracking Dee Dee's hurried movements as she rounded the foot of the bed and made her way halfway up the side.

Dee Dee only offered a non-committal shrug as her answer, meeting Mallory's stare hesitantly. What was she supposed to do, tell Mallory the truth? Let her know just how hopeless her husband had felt, how easily he'd given up? And even if she admitted that much, how could she ever make Mallory understand just how frightened they'd both been? Because they'd known—they'd understood—that whatever they tried or hoped or believed, they had already lost.

"Tell me," Mallory persisted. "I need to know. Did he suffer? It's just. It's something I can't let go of, you know? The wondering what they did to him?"

"He didn't suffer," Dee Dee answered abruptly, without the added assurance of eye contact.

Mallory nodded, accepting Dee Dee's lie without making it clear whether or not she actually believed it. "So. Were you…you know, there? With him, when it happened?"

Dee Dee pulled in a shaky breath. "I was…yeah."

"Then why didn't they kill you, too?"

Her question was asked simply, without any real wondering detectable in her voice, but also no blame, either. And considering Mallory's earlier admission about Hunter, Dee Dee wasn't sure by her unemotional tone if she was actually asking a question, or expressing a wish. But either way it was intended, she decided, it was understandable.

"Who was it?" Mallory pushed. "Who killed him?" She led Dee Dee's gaze with her sluggish one to the body beside her. "Him? Did he pull the trigger?"

Dee Dee looked into the lifeless face; she studied it for signs of familiarity. She knew him, or she had once. His was one of the first faces she'd forgotten, though. He was one of the first things associated with her past that she'd let go of. Because she hadn't needed him, she'd barely had any memories of him that had been worth holding onto. "No," she whispered, although her tone screamed assurance. "This is the first time I've seen him since, uh…since that night. The night of the raid."

"The first…" Mallory shook her head, more from confusion than grogginess. She struggled to sit up, managing to prop herself up on her elbows. "But. Damn it, all this time—"

"Look, Mallory…please. We need to get out of here, all right? Because sooner or later, someone will come back for us, and that someone will kill you for sure, and me…" She shrugged through a telling shake of her head. "This might be tough for you to understand, but I've spent a really long time doing exactly what Elian wanted me to do, and I guess you could say I've finally gotten tired enough of doing it to do something about it. Whatever their plans for us are doesn't mean we have to make it easy for them. Personally, I'd rather go down fighting than just lay down for the sons of bitches again."

Mallory chuckled softly, through a listless roll of her eyes. "Rick didn't exaggerate about you. The stories he told…spot-on."

"Yeah? Well, I remember him well enough to know he's picky about his partners. He never would've agreed to work with you if he didn't think you were tough."

"What's this? A little reverse psychology?"

"If that's what it's gonna take to get you out of this bed."

Mallory groaned, her head lolling between her shoulders. "My head is just…it's so…"

"I know what it feels like, all right, and I know how hard it is to fight," Dee Dee shot back, without an inkling of pity. "But you _can_ fight it. The first time Elian gave it to me was the day he took me to Miami, and I've always wondered, you know, if I'd tried to fight it instead of giving into it, maybe things would've turned out differently."

Mallory sighed, in mid-eye roll as she lifted her head. "Anyone ever told you you're pushy?"

"Yeah," Dee Dee responded, nodding determinedly. "Your husband, and I'll tell you the same thing I told him. I'm not going to sit here and wait, and I'm not going to leave you behind, either." She took a small step back from the bed, holding out her hand to an impassively staring Mallory.

Mallory moaned, defeated, and slid her hand shakily into Dee Dee's, staring for a minute before tightening her grip. Gauging and dissecting and familiarizing, Dee Dee intuitively understood. Not hating, but not particularly liking, either. More like wishing that things could be different, back to the way they had been. The way they should have always remained in Mallory's unspoken, although unhidden, opinion. With Dee Dee gone, still missing, presumed dead.


	24. Chapter 24

**TWENTY-FOUR**

Even if he didn't want to admit it, he couldn't deny the prick did seem to care about Dee Dee. They were blatant, Rivera's feelings for her. A hell of a lot more visible than Hunter wished they were. His stare softened when he talked about her, his voice automatically lightened. But instead of gratitude, jealousy was all Hunter still seemed to feel.

"Tropical Palms Motel," Hunter announced, pulling the door to the interrogation room closed after rejoining Riley Porter in the hallway. "Somewhere in North Hollywood, right off the highway. Sandoval owns the property; Rivera said it's a high traffic area for his working girls. Since Dee Dee wasn't at any of the warehouses, he thinks there's a good chance she was taken there."

Porter nodded, staring down his own reflection in the two-way mirror, before leading Hunter's attention to the eight-by-ten, manila envelope in his hands.

"What is it?" Hunter grunted, nodding at the unsealed envelope.

"Special delivery," Porter answered, turning the packet over in his hands, the label-side facing up. "Another agent, uh…Meriwether. She hand delivered it while you were in with Rivera."

Hunter craned his neck, peeking at the handwritten label. _Riley Porter. Personal_. "Yeah? And what is it?"

"It's, uh." Porter shook his head, pulling in a hard breath. "From Gideon Stanton. Meriwether was given explicit instructions from Bureau Director Corbin to turn Stanton's office upside down, search every inch of it. She found this taped to the underside of his desk. Brought it to me since my name's on it."

"And?" Hunter urged. He didn't want to get into a pissing match with Porter over who had just obtained the more critical information, but considering he had what he believed to be a reliable lead on where Dee Dee might be, he needed Porter to jump into action just as quickly as he was ready to do. The last thing he had the patience for was Gideon Stanton—unless the son of a bitch was being dragged into the Federal Building with his hands cuffed and stripped of every inalienable right that Dee Dee was fighting like hell to get back.

Porter ducked his head, turning the envelope over in his hands again. Studying it like it was new to him, like he hadn't seen it before.

"Porter, come on. I don't think Rivera was lying in there, which means we need to—"

"McCall," Porter said lowly, with questioning. "That description she gave of our mystery man? She said he had an accent, right?"

Hunter shrugged a shoulder. "An accent, yeah. East coast, she thought."

"Stanton, he, uh. He grew up on Long Island. Did you know that?"

"No, I didn't know," Hunter shuffled his weight, locking his hands around his hips. "But all it proves is that Dee Dee was right about him—"

"There're notes in here, a tablet full," Porter continued, holding out the envelope between them. "Written by Stanton. All this time, we thought he was fighting against us…fighting for the wrong side. But he was…he was keeping notes, writing down things that weren't adding up to him." He glanced up. "The notes, they're all about McCall's case."

"About the case? What do you—"

"Bureau Director Corbin, you've talked to him. Right? You think he has an accent? Because I've never really noticed him having an accent." His brows creased, and he glanced back down at the envelope. He pulled the flap open, fiddling with it, but leaving the contents inside the packet. "This, uh. It says he's from a city called Elizabeth. That's in New Jersey; did you know that? He lived there until he moved away to college…to Rhode Island. Went to Brown University."

"Okay. So, both Stanton and Corbin are from the east coast. Just tell me what you're thinking, will you?"

"You know who else went to Brown University? Who just happened to be there at the same time Corbin was?" Porter looked up, his eyes narrowed. "Oscar Velasquez. Brown was his alma mater, too."

**xxx**

When she first heard the footsteps coming from the room next door, Dee Dee tried to convince herself that she was imagining them.

She'd been halfway across the room with a less-than-steady Mallory flush against her side, their arms hooked around each other's waist. Unconsciously, when she heard his voice behind them, she reached for the door. There was a good five-feet separating her from it, but she reached for it, anyway. Maybe it was a last ditch effort from the optimist in her, or maybe it was a heartless I Told You So from the pessimist. Either way, it was a useless endeavor. And he mocked her attempt by laughing.

"Going somewhere?"

"Just her, let her go." Dee Dee stared him down. He stood in the doorway that joined the two rooms, the gun in his hand, the muzzle aimed at Mallory. "She doesn't have anything to do with me, with…any of this."

He nodded once, stiffly. "It's unfair, don't you think? Freedom finally being so close, but yet…still so far away?"

Dee Dee peeked over his shoulder, into the bathroom in the other room. The window above the toilet was open, the seashell-design curtains shuddering in the humid breeze. She hadn't heard the window open, or heard him climb through. She'd been too occupied with visions of a bloody Jordan Trask that, without warning, had transformed into cruel visions of his wife.

"You know, you've really caused everyone a lot of trouble," he said, taking a step into the room. "If it were up to me, I'd snap your neck right here, right now. But your husband…" He sighed, wagging the gun at her. "Call him a sentimental fool, but he wants you alive. He's decided Colombia is the perfect place for you to spend what remains of your worthless life."

Dee Dee clenched her jaw, her stare not wavering, the hatred behind it not lessening. He could say or do whatever he wanted, she wouldn't beg—not for her own life. She'd spent six years begging Elian, and she'd be damned before she let the tradition live on through one of his trained apes.

"My opinion?" he continued. "You're one hell of a liability, too big of one. What's really a shame, though, is Sergeant Trask here. You're right; she doesn't have anything to do with this. It's not really her fault that she's here, just rotten circumstances." He took another step into the room, and another. "And because I feel sorry for you, Trask, I'm gonna give you a choice. You decide. Easy way, I shoot you up with more drugs, OD you. Just let you fall asleep, die peacefully, or. Hard way, you get down on your knees and I splatter your brains all over the wall."

"No…" Dee Dee whispered, her hold tightening around Mallory as Mallory's tightened around her. "Don't. Please, don't do this. Let her…let her go, let her leave. I'll go with you, all right? Wherever you want—"

"Always begging, aren't you?" he scoffed. He spiked a brow, his gaze roaming down Dee Dee's frame and then back up it. "It's obviously not your fortitude that convinced your husband to keep you around. So, what is it about you exactly, hmm? What'd you do for him that made him think you were worth keeping alive?"

What had she done? Everything demanded of her, she thought everyone understood that. Or maybe it wasn't that he didn't understand, he just needed proof in order to believe it. Slowly, she loosened her hold on Mallory, guiding her to the floor as she slowly collapsed. Glancing down only briefly as Mallory came to rest half-crumpled, her stiffened arms in front of her and supporting her, she quickly lifted her stare to meet his malicious one again. She forced herself to look him in the eyes, to appear that unafraid, that sure of herself. "What'd I do?" she asked, situating herself between Mallory and the muzzle of the gun. "I'll show you." She attempted a smile, managing just the hint of one, before nodding toward the empty doorway behind him. "Let's go in the other room—just you and me. I don't know about you, but I like privacy."

He hesitated, before retaliating to her proposition with a grin. Chuckling lowly, humorlessly, he shot down her offer with a shake of his head. "You're going to seduce me? That's your plan?"

"You said it's what I had to do, right, when you came back? I had to give you what I've always given Elian?" She took a step away from Mallory, a step closer to him. "We don't have a lot of time, you know? Sooner or later, someone's going to figure out where we are. So, now you need to decide. Do you want it here, or somewhere else? Somewhere there's no chance of the FBI interrupting us?"

His smile wilted to a mere intimation of one, and he ogled her through another seductive glance. It was just like with Elian—he didn't want her. He didn't have a need for her, other than to prove to her that he could have her if it was what he chose. It was about control; it had always been about control—with Oscar, with Elian, even with Hunter. Whatever they decided, she was supposed to do. No questions asked, no arguments given. Maybe they thought she should appreciate the attention they gave her, both the good and the bad, or maybe they didn't care whether or not she did. After all, none of them saw her as anything more than an opportunity. An opportunity to prove a point, to hurt, to make himself feel stronger and smarter, better. Or an opportunity to save, even if being saved wasn't what she wanted.

"First her," he answered, jutting his chin into the air. "Then you." With a tilt of his head, he led Dee Dee's attention to the syringe discarded on the floor. "Pick it up."

Dee Dee lifted a hand to her neck, rubbing gently. She could feel the specter pricks to her own skin, sharp and stinging and hot. Elian's drugs weren't so far removed from her own life that she'd forgotten them, not the way they made her feel in those first, initial minutes of surging through her veins in search of their own control, or the dangerous lull they eventually wrapped her senses in. "No," she responded. "Don't do this to her. Please. You said yourself she doesn't have anything to do with this…with me, or…or—"

"She didn't have anything to do with it," he corrected. "But that was before she became as big of a liability as you are. She's seen me; she can identify me. And…" He lifted his left hand, his palm steadied in Dee Dee's direction. "Do me a favor, okay, and don't insult either of us by promising that she won't tell anyone?"

"You could go to Colombia, too. The two of us, we could—"

"Play house on Elian's home turf? Is that what you're suggesting?" He chuckled, nodding at Dee Dee. "You're good, I'll give you that. But you see, the problem is, you're not as good as me. You can lie all you want, make any promise that you think I want to hear, keep up your pathetic begging… But in the end? Each one will just be a wasted breath, nothing else. Certainly nothing that will help either of you. Now." He turned the gun, aiming at the syringe. "Pick it up."

**xxx**

The Tropical Palms Motel was even sleazier than the image Marcus Rivera's colorful description of it had brought to life in Hunter's mind. One long, slender building with holes randomly dotting its exterior, half the windows busted out, the others curtained with cobwebs, and the numbers on the fronts of doors either missing or oxidized by the salty air. The building didn't look stable enough to be inhabitable, but the junkies, hookers and gang bangers that scrambled out of the doors when the first car pulled into the parking lot with lights flashing proved that stability wasn't necessarily the first prerequisite for settling in. Although Hunter decided the residents of The Tropical Palms Motel weren't the types that were probably all that accustomed to stability, anyway.

"You're sure this is it?"

"It's where Rivera pointed me." Hunter shot a glance at Riley Porter; the two of them crouched behind the front end of Porter's four-door sedan. Both had weapons drawn, oblivious to the stealthy activity ensuing around them. Cars creeping into the lot, agents taking safety behind open doors, radios buzzing, cell phones ringing, and hushed voices trading ideas and relaying orders.

"Rivera think this is where Trask was brought, too?" Porter asked.

"Claimed he didn't know anything about her," Hunter grumbled. "But if Sandoval felt it was a safe enough place to hide Dee Dee…" The easiest scenario, they all knew, would be if they found both Dee Dee and Mallory in the sham of a motel. And the best case was that both were still alive, unharmed. It was an unbearable thought—someone hurting either of them—and something he didn't want Mallory to have to suffer through, or even worse, for Dee Dee to have to survive again. Not when she was already so dangerously close to irreparably breaking. "We need to get in there. Move now—"

"Hang on, Hunter," Porter returned, his scowl keeping Hunter in place. "Snipers are trying to get visuals through the windows. Let's give them time to do their jobs, huh? We don't know what's going on inside, or how many of Sandoval's men might be here. Which means we need to take this slow."

"To hell with who's in there, we need to pull everyone out."

"Out safely," Porter corrected, his tone stern, his authority clearly relayed. "Could be McCall and Trask are both in there, or could be that neither are. Don't forget, we're basing all of this off the word of a man who's facing a life sentence in prison. What's he have to lose by lying to us?"

"What's there for him to gain by it?" Hunter shot back. Rivera's concern for Dee Dee had been blatant, even if Hunter hated admitting it. Blatant enough, at least, to convince Hunter's gut that he wanted her out from under Sandoval's immoral thumb as much as Hunter did.

"The hostage negotiator is on his way—"

"Screw the negotiator, this isn't a hostage situation. In Sandoval's mind, he owns Dee Dee, which means there's nothing to negotiate. What happens to her depends on what Sandoval orders—nothing else. And if Sandoval's order is to kill her, there's nothing your negotiator will be able to say that'll change Stanton's—or, Jesus, Corbin's—mind about putting a bullet in her head."

"Stanton…" Porter huffed a breath, loosening and then tightening his fingers around the butt of the gun. "Why'd he keep all that information hidden? Why not share it with me when he first thought something was off? If he had…"

"So, you believe it?" Hunter asked. "You believe what Stanton wrote?" He leaned a shoulder into the car, mopping his forehead with a swipe of his hand. While they'd led the brigade from Miami to North Hollywood, Hunter had skimmed over Gideon Stanton's sloppily—albeit concisely—penned suspicions. Issues were brought to light that had remained hidden for over six years. How the brand-new-to-the-job of Bureau Director Anthony Corbin personally oversaw the test results of the DNA taken from the house in Malibu—because McCall's case was that important to the FBI, was the bullshit story he'd fed everyone from Gideon Stanton to Captain Devane. For six years, Corbin had kept his hand in the cookie jar, and since Sandoval's arrest, he'd dug it in even deeper. He'd met with Sandoval one-on-one, but kept a low profile when it came to working with Hunter, and he'd boarded a plane headed back to Virginia after Ortiz's death, when it was suggested that he meet with Dee Dee face-to-face.

"I don't want to," Porter responded stiffly, his reluctance noticeable in his voice.

"Could be a setup by Stanton, to try and get the heat off himself."

"It's the missing link, though. All this time, whenever someone wanted to put the blame on Stanton, I couldn't figure it out, you know? How that initial contact with either the Velasquez's or Sandoval would've been made. I mean, Stanton's an ass, yeah, a hothead, but he's always taken his work seriously. And then with Corbin…damn it. You can't deny we've got one hell of a link."

"If Corbin's behind all this, where's Stanton?"

Porter hesitated, before answering with a shake of his head.

"Think Corbin could've found out he was onto him?"

"The guy's the Director of the FBI. What can't he find out?"

Hunter responded with a grumble, rising up on his haunches and peeking at the motel over the hood of the car. He shook his head, lowering back down. "We need to move, get in there."

"Get in there, where?" Porter argued. "We have more closed doors to that building than open ones. That means we move and whoever the hell is in there sees us, Dee Dee could be dead before we make it halfway across the parking lot. And if Trask is in there, too, the same could go for her."

Hunter fell into reluctant silence, not agreeing, but not having a valid argument to fight Porter with. "Then what's the plan?" he asked.

"See if the snipers can get a visual on anyone inside. That'll tell us, at least, which rooms are empty, which aren't."

"And then we're moving in?"

Porter snorted a laugh. "You think any time soon you'll stop treating me like I'm a complete idiot? Because whether or not it's what you want to believe, I do understand the situation here. I get that your trust has taken a couple hits, but I've always been straight with you, given you the truth as I knew it. So, would it kill you to try returning the favor just this once by putting a little faith in me?"

"Putting my faith in the FBI overall is where I have a problem." Hunter caught Porter's glare out of the corner of his eye, but ignored it. _Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice_, _shame on me_ was the adage Hunter had decided to start sharing with the FBI. It was his new mantra, his deepest belief. No matter how hard Riley Porter tried to convince him that it shouldn't be.

**xxx**

It was the lesser of two evils.

Wasn't it?

_It was_. Or was she just trying to make herself feel better by justifying her own weakness?

Mallory's eyelids fluttered, her strength ebbing. Her neck went slack and her head fell forward, her arms precarious supports only still barely holding her up. She murmured something, but her voice was too soft, her words too slurred. Dee Dee thought she heard Hunter's name, a want for a message to be given to him, or maybe Mallory was just saying goodbye. Or, Go to hell, which Dee Dee couldn't disagree that she deserved.

"Don't fight it, Sergeant Trask. Just relax, let the drug do its job."

Dee Dee swallowed her tears, as Mallory finally collapsed, sprawling on the floor.

"You made the right choice, Mrs. Sandoval, the smart choice for her." He lifted the empty syringe into view, before tossing it to the floor beside a cataleptic Mallory.

Dee Dee tugged at the handcuffs, the loose bracelet locked around the footboard of the bed. She'd picked the lesser of two evils, she repeated to herself, with the hope of believing it. Or at least she'd made the choice that left Mallory with a fighting chance. Best case scenario, the FBI stormed the room before the drugs had a chance to kill her. And worst case… Like he'd pointed out, dying in your sleep was a far easier death than taking a bullet to the back of the head.

"Why'd you bring her here?" she asked, through another, soft tug to the cuffs. "She didn't have to be involved."

He shook his head, his lips pursing. "No, she didn't. Shame she was." With a wave of the gun, he motioned toward the form sprawled across the bed. "You can thank him. Couldn't leave well enough alone. When he couldn't find you, he went looking for her. And in the end, unfortunately for Sergeant Trask, I didn't have any choice but to consider them a package deal. Our good Agent Stanton told her a little more than he should have in exchange for trying to get her to tell him more than she knew."

Dee Dee's stare hardened on the man's face, idiosyncrasies coming back to her faintly, randomly. _Gideon Stanton_. What she seemed to remember most about him was that she hadn't liked him.

"Well. Seems we only have one problem left to deal with." He turned toward her, winking as their stares met.

"How do you think we're going to get out of here?" Dee Dee asked, giving the cuffs another tug. "Outside…they're everywhere." They'd seen the first blue flash of light what she thought was close to fifteen minutes earlier. And then there'd been a second flash, a third one… They were there, out there—Hunter was there. Dee Dee just needed him to make a move inside quickly so that the choice she'd made for Mallory really would be the lesser of the two evils.

"Right, the party crashers. They have put quite the kink in our plans, haven't they?" He bent down, snatching the syringe off the floor. "It's going to be a shame, you know, when I have to tell your husband."

Dee Dee shook her head, understanding but wishing she didn't. He was cornered; they both knew it. Which meant, once, in the beginning, they might have been following Elian's plan, but that had changed. Now, they were following his.

He shrugged a shoulder, holstering his gun and pulling a tiny, glass bottle out of the front pocket of his trousers. "How do you think he'll take it—the news about your death?" Chuckling lowly, to himself, he stabbed the top of the bottle with the hypodermic needle, sinking it into the liquid inside.

"He'll kill you."

He shook his head. "He'll understand." He withdrew the needle, a thin spray of liquid shooting out of its tip. "Trust me. If there's one thing Elian does understand, it's collateral damage. And that, I'm afraid…" He pointed the tip of the needle at her, an eyebrow cocked. "Is what you've become."

Dee Dee's gaze shifted from Mallory to the body on the bed. "What about them? No one will believe—"

"Thanks to Gideon's overbearing personality and son of a bitch reputation, everyone already believes everything I want them to. I wish I could say I planned all of this, that I'm that good. But the truth is, it was Gideon who dropped his annoying ego in my lap. He was nosy, always watching me. So, I figured out a purpose for him—one that's worked out well so far, I think. Which means it won't be a stretch for anyone to believe that he took it upon himself to take care of you." He lifted the syringe, glancing down at it. "He overdosed both Trask and you, but before the drug could take effect, there was a struggle, you got his gun. And…" He lifted his gun into view again. "Bam. In the business, that's what we call three for the price of one." He shrugged, leaving his post beside an unresponsive Mallory and walking toward Dee Dee. "I mean, let's be honest. It's not like Elian will be returning home anytime soon, if ever. And that means there's no one for you to lie down on your back for anymore, no one to get on your knees for." He chuckled contemptuously, coming to a stop in front of her. "No further purpose for you, either. Unfortunately, though, the retirement package for whores isn't all that attractive."

Dee Dee jerked, his hand coming down on her cuffed one, his fingers closing around the metal that circled her wrist. "You said that Elian, that he…he wants me sent to Colombia. Right? He wants me out of the states?"

"That plan just might have been do-able before the Calvary showed up, but now…" He hooked his index finger between the bracelet and her skin, yanking. She stumbled into him, and he caught her before her balance was completely lost, looping his arm around her waist. "You said it yourself, there's no way for us to get out of here without being noticed. Alone, I still have a chance, but with you..." He shook his head, feigning a pout. "And that takes us full circle, right back to a little thing called collateral damage." He lifted the syringe, touching the tip of the hypodermic needle to the corner of her right eye. Slowly, lightly, he dragged it down her face, giving a tiny poke when he reached her jawbone. She flinched and pulled her head back, but he tangled his hand in the back of her hair, stopping her.

His breath was hot, hitting her face in spurts. He smelled like tobacco, but not cigarettes like Elian always did. His smell was different, fresher. His eyes were cold, and standing so close to him, she could feel how much he hated her. Which was another difference between Elian and him, because with Elian, she only ever felt impassiveness.

"I warned your husband. Six years ago, I told him what a stupid idea you were. But he wouldn't listen. Now, though, he regrets you just as much as I always have."

"I remember you. In Malibu, with Oscar…you were there."

He pulled on her hair, forcing her head back as he poked the underside of her chin with the tip of the needle. "You were a bad, fucking idea," he repeated, eliciting a soft moan from Dee Dee as he dug harder into her skin. "A bad one then, an even worse one now."

"Then do it," Dee Dee whispered, tears clouding her eyes. "Kill me."

His eyes narrowed and he studied her for a moment, before a smile spread slowly across his lips. "But, Mrs. Sandoval. We haven't had our fun yet."

"Go to hell."

"Ah, you have that all wrong," he responded, chuckling. "That's where you're headed, remember? Right alongside your friends here."

"I'll scream. Someone outside will hear me."

He nodded slowly, calculatedly. "And then I'll shoot you. I'll run outside, tell them I broke in through the back, Gideon had already killed both Trask and you, and he tried to kill me." He shrugged. "What choice did I have but to shoot him first?"

Dee Dee tried to jerk her head to the side, out of his tight hold, but his grip held. "Shoot me, I don't care. But I'm not going to do what you want. I won't let you do it."

"But you promised."

She pulled in a shaky breath, tears leaking out of the corners of her eyes. They forged zigzagged paths, crossing her temples and disappearing in her hair. _She had promised_. She'd promised Hunter that they could get through the assignment with the DEA, that they would be stronger for taking part in it, better people because of it. She'd promised Jordan Trask that if they worked together, they would be safe. She had promised Elian everything—to behave, be better. But all that seemed to matter then, there, was that she'd promised Avi. She'd promised a new life for the two of them, a life where they would be together and safe, and she wanted to keep those promises. She only cared about keeping _them_, and not letting a single one get forgotten or overlooked or broken.

Rage rushed through her again, like a strong gust of wind that came out of nowhere, unexpectedly. She screamed, her anger spraying across his face, echoing through the tiny room even louder than the music had boomed. Bringing her knee up, she struck him between his legs. His eyes widened and his hold on her dropped, his hands crisscrossing over his groin and the syringe landing between them on the floor, as he staggered backwards. "If you're going to kill me, then do it!" she howled. "_Do it! _Because if you don't, I will!"

"Fucking whore! Don't you ever put your hands on me!"

The blow came out of nowhere, his fist a blur in Dee Dee's peripheral vision. The punch landed on her jaw, her head popping backwards and her balance lost, leaving her to crumple to the floor. Her right arm was stretched taut, the handcuffs an unforgiving link keeping her trapped to the footboard. She screamed with the pain, white-hot flashes searing both the side of her face and wrist, and she tried to curl her legs protectively as he barreled up to her and landed a hard kick to her ribs.

Dropping down on his knees beside her, he pulled his arm back, his hand fisted. He swung, his knuckles connecting with the side of her face and sending her flying, face first, into the footboard. Reaching to the floor, searching blindly, frantically, her fingers danced over the mildewed carpet—back and forth, up and back—until touching plastic. She grabbed hold of the syringe, but another punch to the side of her head stole her coordination, and she dropped it. It landed halfway under the bed, and she grabbed for it again, screaming, searching, finally taking hold of it. She pulled her arm back through another scream and then swung forward, stabbing his calf with the needle.

"You bitch!" he wailed, rising up beside her, towering over her. "I'll fucking—"

In the distance, she thought she heard the slam of a door, loud, booming like the music's bass. Voices charged inside shouting, screaming in unison. A gun blast detonated, tearing through the room like a bomb, bouncing off the walls, consuming every inch of space. The hand landed on Dee Dee's leg and she tried to jump away, screaming and kicking, still fighting.

"We need medics! Get medics in here!"

She froze in mid-kick, her eyes widening, tears glistening in them, as her stare locked onto the vacant one in front of her. "Get him off me! Get him—" She growled with both shock and disgust, as Hunter dragged the limp body away from her by the ankles. He let the feet fall hard, the legs coming to rest spread open, both feet pointed outward.

"Mallory!" She redirected Hunter's attention to the blonde in the middle of the floor. She climbed shakily onto her knees, both hands locking around the top bar of the wrought iron frame for support. "It's a sedative, I think. He gave it to her. But I…I don't know for sure…what it is. I think, uh…uh…Secobarbital."

Hunter knelt beside Mallory, pressing two fingers to the side of her neck. He hesitated, before conveying his finding with a sharp, quick nod, and then scrambled back to his feet as paramedics and three piece-suited agents filed into the room. "We need these cuffs unlocked," he commanded, back beside Dee Dee at the foot of the bed. He wrapped his hands around her arms, helping her to her feet, making sure she had her balance. "You okay? Did he give you the same drug?"

"Jesus, Hunter. The fuck happened in here?" Porter barreled up to the end of the bed, a small, silver key in his palm. He shook his head as Hunter grabbed it out of his hand, giving Dee Dee a cautious once-over. "I told you to stand down, didn't I?"

"And I told you, no," Hunter barked, pulling the metal bracelet away from Dee Dee's wrist. He took her hand in his, lightly rubbing across the angry, red streak that marked her skin. "You okay? You hurt?"

She touched a shaky hand to her side, half-nodding, half-shrugging. "My ribs."

"Your ribs, okay," he responded, sounding more nervous than relieved. "Medics are here. We'll get you to the hospital—"

"Avi," she interrupted. "I left her. In the hotel, when he—"

"She's fine," Hunter assured, blanketing her shoulders with his hands. "Safe. We took her back to the Federal Building; she's had around the clock protection. Also more ice cream than any kid should eat in twenty-four hours."

Dee Dee tried to laugh, the sound emerging as a sob instead. Avi was okay, and that meant she'd managed to keep at least one of her promises to her—_she was okay_. Hunter gave a soft tug to her arm, and she let him lead her away from the bed, as two paramedics rushed up to the body sprawled at the foot. A hole was burned into the center of his chest, blood oozing from it, dying his pale-color shirt a bright, vibrant red. "Tony…" she whispered. "It's, uh. He was…in Malibu. It's him. The man I told you about, in Oscar's room."

"Yeah. We know who he is." Hunter slid his arms around her shoulders, forcing her back to the pandemonium in the room. Weaving between agents and paramedics, he led her outside. Ahead of them, two paramedics wheeled an unconscious Mallory on a gurney. She was pale, but looked peaceful, and one of the EMT's offered Hunter an assuring nod. "Mallory?" he asked Dee Dee. "She was here the whole time?"

"I don't know." She dragged the back of her hand beneath her nose, and then patted her cheeks, drying her tears. "At first I was, uh…he put me in the other room, next door. The handcuffs…Tony, he…but I broke free from the bed. That's when I came in here. Mallory was already here; he'd drugged her. And the other one, uh, Stanton…he was dead."

"You remember him?" Hunter responded tightly. "The Velasquez raid, he—"

She nodded, stopping him. "Was in charge."

"Ms. McCall?" Riley Porter hurried up to Hunter and her, a fresh sheen of sweat glistening on his forehead. "Ma'am, we need to get you to the hospital. Get you checked out, get your statement about what happened here. If you'll come with me—"

"She'll stay with me," Hunter broke in, adopting his Alpha male stance with his shoulders squared and biceps flexed.

"I want to see my daughter," Dee Dee disagreed, standing up to both men. "After I see Avi, I'll—"

"Agents are preparing to move her to the hospital," Porter assured. "She'll meet us there. Now, please." He nodded toward the sedan parked crookedly across the lot. "We shouldn't be naïve and think you're out of danger just because Director Corbin…" His voice faded, and he took a hesitant step backwards. Looking awkward, like he wasn't sure how he was supposed to react—with tears or anger.

"Director Corbin?" Dee Dee's brows creased, as she glanced from one stone-faced man to the other. "Tony? He's the—"

"Anthony Corbin," Hunter answered stiffly. "Bureau Director."

"The Bureau Director that you just put a bullet in, Hunter," Porter responded, a hard exhale further relaying his frustration. "The only place you're going is back to the Federal Building. You have to be briefed—"

"You wanna brief me, do it at the hospital," Hunter argued. "I'm not leaving Dee Dee alone again."

"You don't have a choice," Porter shot back, squaring his shoulders and stepping up, chest to chest, with Hunter. "This time, I'm afraid you're gonna have to play by the rules. You fight me, I'll have you cuffed and hauled in." He spiked a brow, maintaining eye contact with a squinting Hunter. "Don't push me this time. The Bureau Director is dead because of the bullet you put in his chest. Questions have to be asked and answers given."

"He was holding two women hostage!" Hunter barked. "And what about Stanton—"

"_Now_ you're concerned about Gideon Stanton?" Porter asked, wide-eyed. "For the past six years you've been trying to crucify the guy!"

Dee Dee took a shaky step backwards, putting as much distance as her throbbing ribs would allow between the men and herself. Inadvertently, she groaned, her hand shooting to her side. Not only did her ribs ache, but also the blows she'd taken still had her head spinning. And if she thought she could get away with it without Hunter going into a full-blown overreaction, she would ask to sit down—or maybe lying down might actually be better.

"Dee Dee, are you— Dee Dee!"

Her legs went out from under her, and she felt Hunter grab her, his hands sliding beneath her arms and pulling her back to her feet, although her legs refused to cooperate and remained limp. She was tired and dizzy, and she tried to tell him that. If he would just give her a minute to catch her breath, she would be fine. But damn it, since the night she'd been dragged out of the house in Coral Gables, no one seemed interested in giving her even that much time to herself.

"I'll ride with her to the hospital," Porter barked. "Hunter, go back to the Federal Building with Agent Hernandez. Give your statement, then Hernandez will bring you to the hospital. Let's just play this by the book, okay? Please? People are gonna want answers, and you're the one who's going to have to give them. You know that as well as I do."

"…Go…" Dee Dee whispered, her voice low, her throat dry. She nodded as Hunter's stare fell on her, swallowing her, and wriggled free from his hold. "I'm…all right. Just…I just. I need some rest, you know? Just a little sleep and I'll be fine."

"She needs x-rays," Hunter said. "She took a good kick to the ribs."

"Hunter, in case you hadn't heard, we do have real doctors in Florida," Porter countered. "Stop worrying, huh? I'll make sure she gets the best possible care until you get there and can start hovering again."

"Hovering," Hunter grunted. "Funny."

"I wish it was," Porter grumbled under his breath, taking hold of Dee Dee's arm to offer his support. "I wish I could find at least one thing about this cluster that was even remotely funny."

**xxx**

The hospital room was quiet. The window shade was drawn, the bright, afternoon sunlight banished. A bouquet of flowers sat on the bedside table, a mixture of pink and red roses that fragranced the air. Tingeing the coolness with their perfumed scent, they only barely succeeded at overpowering the lingering stenches of fear and disbelief.

Hunter sat stiffly on the edge of the bed, momentarily fascinated by the tubes and wires connecting the machinery to the bedridden body. Hesitantly, he reached for her, his fingers dancing slowly down the side of her pale face. Even though his touch was gentle, her eyelids fluttered, his smile greeting her sleepy stare. He nodded, silently promising that everything—that she—would be all right, before he let the IV lines and heart monitor steal a portion of his attention again. His chest tightened, the magnitude of what they had survived crashing down on him for what felt like the millionth time in too short of an amount of time.

"You're gonna be fine," he assured her. "The doctor said you just need a little rest, that's all. Then you'll be good as new."

Mallory returned his uncertain smile, blinking slowly, sleepily. "Tired."

He nodded, conveying how she felt was both normal and expected. "You were lucky." He took her hand in his, closing hers inside of his fingers. "I'm sorry, Mal. I shouldn't have…it was…stupid of me to think you'd be okay by yourself. I should've had you go back to LA, back where you would be safe—"

"Don't. It's okay," she whispered, tightening her fingers around his. "I'm okay." Her brows creased and she moistened her lips with a slide of her tongue. "What about…uh. Dee Dee?"

"She's here, too. Somewhere." He frowned, making a quick glance over his shoulder at the closed door. "I'm not sure where, though. Porter checked her in under an alias, hid her away. And so far, no one's wanted to tell me where that hiding place is."

"She's, uh…" Mallory rolled her head to the side, chuckling lowly, with effort. "The way you've always described her, it was right on the mark. She's tough."

"Yeah. She is."

She pulled in a strong breath through her nose, resituating her head and shoulders on the pillow beneath her. "I'm not sure what I expected, what I thought she'd be like. But it's not what I got—who she is." She shrugged a shoulder lazily. "Guess I thought by now Sandoval would've taken the fight out of her, but… He hasn't. She came into that room fighting, and she never stopped."

"Maybe when you've been fighting as long as she has, there comes a point when it's the only thing you know how to do."

"Maybe." She exhaled a deep, pensive breath, fighting to reopen her eyes after a long, weighted blink. "The two of you, you're a lot alike. Honestly? I don't know how you've made it this long without her." She met his misunderstanding expression with a sleepy roll of her eyes. "Oh, come on, Rick. You're not actually going to make me say it, are you?"

He shook his head. Not understanding, not entirely sure that he wanted to.

Mallory groaned whisperingly, under her breath. "Fine, I'll say it. You love her." She engulfed him with a tearful stare, a look that told him she would do anything to change the truth if she could—if either of them could.

"Come on, Mal. Not now, huh? I think…let's take some time. Everything's happened so fast—"

"Fast? That's what you call six years—fast?" She shook her head, the first of her tears dropping onto her cheeks. "I've tried so hard to ignore it, you know? And before…when she was gone…it wasn't that hard to do—to ignore. I mean, I felt pretty confident that the odds were in my favor and she wasn't coming back. But it looks like she did exactly what you've always said she has a knack for doing, and that's beating the odds." She sniffled, Hunter brushing his hand over first her right cheek and then left one, clearing away her tears. "Don't get me wrong. I'm glad she's home, I am. After everything she's been through, she deserves to be happy."

"So do you."

"Yeah, I do. But…I don't know. Maybe right now isn't my time. Maybe it's Dee Dee's, instead."

"Mal, come on. Nothing has to change."

"Everything already has. It changed the minute Riley Porter told you that he thought she was alive. I knew it then, you know, when you told me what he'd said. I saw it in you. But, I just. I still tried to ignore it." She pulled her hand out of his, sniffling. "Look. I, uh…I talked to my parents a little while ago. As soon as I get out of here, I'm going back to Maryland. I'm going to stay with them for a while. It'll give me some time to clear my head, to figure out what I want to do. And who knows? Coming home worked for Dee Dee, right? So, maybe it'll work for me, too."

He grabbed her hand again, locking it inside of his, squeezing. Holding on, even though he knew Mallory was right, he'd been the first one to let go. "Don't leave."

She smiled softly, with a hint of gratitude but even more sadness. "I have to. There isn't anything to stay for."

"I do love you, Mallory."

"I know." She reached for him, brushing her fingertips across his jaw, her smile fading. "But the thing is, you love her more."

"Mal, I…" He exhaled, confirming her tearful assumption. He did love her, and even more than that, he'd become dependent on her. And he had used her. He had used her to fill the lonely minutes that made up the past six years. He hadn't done it intentionally or maliciously. He'd done it as a means to survive, because he never could have made it through a single day without Dee Dee if he hadn't had Mallory to hold onto. "I'm sorry, I am. I never meant for you to get hurt."

"Maybe not. But I did."

In that moment, he wished his feelings could be different instead of what they'd always been. Mallory looked so vulnerable laying in bed buried beneath the tubes and wires that he was responsible for putting into her. His heart had stopped when he saw her lying on the floor in the motel, her face pale, her breathing slow. There'd only been one other moment in his life when he'd felt just as frightened, and only one other time when he'd felt such an insurmountable relief once he felt her pulse and knew that she was still alive. "I'm sorry," he whispered, the feeling of wishing he could turn back time, even if only temporarily, overwhelming him. But if he were granted that power, he didn't know how far back he would turn it, how far back he would want it to go. Would he undo the last six years, or stop at a week ago? And no matter where he chose to stop it, which woman would make the biggest sacrifice for his decision?

"I do love you," he added, giving her hand another squeeze.

She rolled her eyes, moaning. "Oh, God. Don't, okay? Don't be sweet, because it makes it too damn hard to hate you." She slid her hand out of his, clasping hers together across her stomach. "You know, as much as this hurts and as much as I want to beg you to stay with me, I think she needs you more. I don't even know if she realizes how much."

"So, what do we do? Where do we go from here?"

She laughed tearfully, with a hint of anger. "Look. I'm not that big of a person, okay? I'm willing to bow out semi-gracefully, but I'll be damned before I give you permission to go after her. So, just…leave, okay? Leave and don't come back. That way, I can pretend you're just another jackass who broke my heart."

He hesitated, watching her tears, wanting to comfort her. But that time had passed, he understood, just like Mallory did. Gently, he touched her cheek, and the feeling hit him again—he wanted to stay. He couldn't imagine trying to go on without her, not when she'd become so much to him, such a big part of him. But he also knew, with even more certainty, that he couldn't waste another day by living through it without Dee Dee. And even though both wants were strong, there was no mistaking which was stronger.

"Take care of yourself," Mallory whispered, closing her eyes as he stepped away from the bed. "Take care of her."

He didn't look back as he walked toward the door, he couldn't. Because he was afraid if he did, he wouldn't be strong enough to do what needed to be done, what he wanted to do. He didn't know if he would be strong enough to give up all that was safe and proven for that which was still marked by so much doubt.

But he would try.

With Mallory's begrudging blessing and his rekindled determination, he would grab hold of the opportunity he'd been waiting six years to be given back to him. And he would never let go again. No matter how hard Dee Dee tried to convince him that he should.


	25. Chapter 25

_Author's Note: We've finally reached the end! To everyone who stuck with me through this entire ride, thank you so much for reading. And a special thank you to those who took the time to leave a comment—it's always great to hear your thoughts. I hope you've enjoyed reading the story as much as I enjoyed writing it._

**TWENTY-FIVE**

What little of the world could be seen outside the window looked deceptively peaceful—safe. Almost like somewhere she might actually want to live, if the choice were hers to make.

Dee Dee turned away from the pane and the small glimpse of the ocean visible from it. She met her audience of two apprehensively, attempting to warm the atmosphere between them with a smile, but failing. Overlooking Riley Porter's own miserable attempt at a smile, her gaze settled instead on the gold star affixed to the second man's breast pocket. She nodded, understanding, knowing, and before either stone-faced man could verbalize an actual greeting, she found herself searching frantically for the strength that she knew they were going to ask her for.

"Ms. McCall," Porter greeted. He stood at the foot of the hospital bed, nodding a further hello. "This is Marshal Guy Cleary. He's with the United States Department of Justice."

"Department of Justice…yeah," Dee Dee whispered, lowering herself onto the edge of the unmade bed. She slid her hand through the side of her hair, smoothing the strands behind her ear. "Before you, um. My daughter? The nurse took her—"

"To a playroom on the pediatric floor," Porter answered. He lifted his hands quickly, his palms steadied in Dee Dee's direction. "There's nothing to worry about, I promise you. Right now, she's in the middle of a cut throat game of _Candyland _with two FBI agents, and there are two Marshals standing guard." He smiled, small and nervous. "How're you feeling?"

Dee Dee touched a hand to the side of her face, inadvertently wincing as her swollen cheekbone retaliated with a flash of pain. "Just some bruises," she answered, lowering her hand and skimming it shakily over the thick tape that covered her torso and was concealed beneath the hospital gown. "Luckily, the ribs, too—just bruised. I'll be fine."

"Glad to hear it," Porter responded. "So, uh. What do you say? The sooner we get you out of here, the better. Are you ready to get to work?"

Dee Dee blew out a tense breath, her gaze darting between the two men's stony expressions. "I guess there's no time like the present?"

"Exactly right," Porter agreed. "Well, then. Let's get this briefing started—"

"Briefing?" she asked, laughing dryly. "That's how you've decided to sum up my life? As a briefing?"

"Sorry," Porter muttered, shooting a wary glance at the man beside him. "I know this is all happening suddenly, but it's crucial that we get you moved into a safe environment as soon as possible."

"Fine," Dee Dee responded curtly. "Whatever. Just tell me what's going on. And I want to know everything. Not just the bits and pieces you feel like telling me, but _all_ of it."

Porter pulled an envelope out of the breast pocket of his jacket, holding it out for her. Dee Dee took it shakily, and he gave her a minute to look it over before continuing. "It's a subpoena. You're being called to testify against Elian Sandoval."

She dropped the envelope as if it had suddenly burst into flames, and pushed it toward the opposite side of the bed with a quick flick of her hand. "I won't live long enough to do that."

"The government's prepared to make sure you do," Porter assured her. "Marshal Cleary and I are going to take your daughter and you out of here, we'll move you to a safe house. You, uh…you remember how that process works, right?"

She responded with a faint, tight smile, one that made it clear that she wasn't in any type of mood to be patronized. Riley Porter was handling her with kid gloves, as if she might break. But what he didn't understand was that she felt stronger than ever, and she was prepared to keep fighting, just like they wanted her to do.

"Both your daughter and you will have around the clock protection until the trial ends," Porter explained. "You'll be guarded by both FBI agents and U.S. Marshals, and when the trial begins these men will be responsible for transporting you safely to and from the court house, as well keeping your daughter safe while you're gone. Trust me, every precaution will be taken."

"What about, uh. We're married. Can't Elian's lawyers fight me testifying?"

"It's not going to happen. By your own account, the marriage wasn't consensual, and we intend to use that against Sandoval instead of letting his lawyers use it to his advantage. It's just one more way for us to show how you've been victimized. So, we'll present you as a hostile witness. That way, you'll be able to take the stand and tell the jury your story in your own words."

_Your story in your own words_ Dee Dee replayed in her head. The thought made her stomach ache, her chest burn, and for a second, one that she felt unusually strong through, she considered refusing to testify and taking her chances in jail, instead. In the big picture, it seemed like the lesser of the evils—waiting in a locked cell for one of Elian's men to kill her. And it seemed less frightening than exposing her degrading secrets to a room full of judgmental jurors, unemotional law enforcement, government bigwigs, and blood-and-gore-craving spectators.

"Once they find out I married him they won't hear anything else," she said, her gaze dropping as she hid from Porter's deceivingly understanding eyes. "They won't…no one will understand. And I don't know if I can…" _If I can make them understand_, she silently concluded. The humiliation Elian had subjected her to, the fear and hatred he'd instilled in her all seemed too horrific to be able to be explained with mere words. She didn't know where or how to begin. If she hadn't even been able to tell Hunter, how could Porter expect her to tell a room full of strangers?

"The FBI believes you, Ms. McCall," Porter said softly, soothingly. "And we fully expect a jury to believe you, too."

"You expect?" she asked, doubt darkening her eyes. "I was a cop, remember? I know what they do to victims in a courtroom. They tear them apart, piece-by-piece, ugly truth by ugly truth. And I know— Look, no one's going to believe me. How can they? Whether or not it's what I wanted, I _am_ married to him. I've been married to him for almost six years."

Porter shook his head, seeming as unworried as he claimed to be by the information she re-stressed. "That doesn't mean anything. Rape happens in marriages, too. And in the end, Ms. McCall, what defines it as rape is one word—no."

"But. It was six years—"

"Six years of control," Porter argued, through a firm nod. "And isn't that what rape is about? Your case has everything—violence, control, isolation, abuse." He shrugged, as if it should all be so simple for her to recount, simple for others to believe. Open and shut, because she had all the elements that Riley Porter thought made up a good case, an interesting one. And it disgusted her. It made her feel disgusted, how excited he seemed by the ugliness that was her life.

"How can I expect anyone to believe me?" Dee Dee whispered. "I don't even know what I believe anymore."

"You'll be counseled by our attorneys," Porter offered. "They'll help you prepare your testimony."

"You mean they'll make me look as pathetic as you need me to look?" She frowned, her stare turning cold. "So, what? Is that supposed to make it easier for me to tell what happened, because I'll know people think I'm pathetic? Because they'll feel sorry for me?"

Porter cleared his throat, shuffling awkwardly from foot to foot as he dug his hands into the front pockets of his trousers. "Bottom line, we need to make sure Sandoval doesn't walk. And your testimony added to all the evidence we've accumulated regarding his drug trafficking, prostitution, murder…" He shook his head, grimacing. "We need you, Ms. McCall. We need you most of all, and my opinion? You need to be able to tell your story."

Dee Dee forced down a swallow, trying to fight down her fear, also. Riley Porter wanted her to tell her story; he thought it was what she needed to do. _Screw him_ was her first retort, with her second being, _Who in the hell did he think he was?_ Did he actually believe he knew her, that he knew what she needed or wanted? Because if that was what he knew, then what she really needed was for him to explain it to her so that she would finally know, too.

"We have a car waiting downstairs," Porter continued. "The doctor will be by shortly to check you one last time before you're released. After that, your daughter and you will be driven to the safe house. Keep in mind, it's imperative that you don't tell anyone where you are, your location. Both your daughter's and your safety are dependent on complete secrecy in this matter."

Dee Dee dragged her hand through the top of her hair, scattering the strands. Her eyelids fluttered, weighted by both exhaustion and disbelief. "What, uh. What about… I mean, can I at least say goodbye? I need to talk to Hunter, to explain—"

Porter shot down her plea with a sharp shake of his head. "I'm sorry."

She ducked her head, fighting back tears, trying to organize her frenzied thoughts, and calm her nerves that were one more unwanted change away from convincing her that running was the safer option than willingly making Avi and herself the government's own, personal sitting ducks. "What about after the trial?" she asked, her voice choked.

"That's where the Justice Department comes in, ma'am" Marshal Cleary answered, stepping up to the foot of the bed beside Porter. He towered over the agent by a solid four inches, his silvery hair cropped shot and his features chiseled, sharp. "The Attorney General has reviewed your case, and he's recommended that you be admitted into the Witness Protection Program. You'll begin the program as soon as you finish your testimony." He clasped his hands in front of him, clutching a large, overstuffed envelope. "Everything's already been arranged."

"Arranged?" she asked quickly, breathlessly. "But it's my decision, right? I mean, I can…I can say…no?"

"You really think that's an option?" Porter rebutted, an eyebrow cocked to drive home his point that, no, it wasn't one. "Elian Sandoval isn't just going to go away."

Wasn't that what she'd been saying all along, Dee Dee wanted to fire back at the nauseatingly sympathetic-looking Porter. Finally, when it was what she wanted least, someone had decided to listen to her. And not only listen, but also use what she'd been saying to her disadvantage.

"Ma'am, we've created new identities for your daughter and you," Cleary announced. "Given you a new life."

"You mean a life, don't you?" Dee Dee responded bitingly. "You're forgetting, I didn't have one before."

"Yes, ma'am," Cleary muttered uncomfortably. He cleared his throat, opening the eight-by-ten envelope and pulling out a stapled stack of papers. "Your, uh. Your name is Alexandra Ross. You were born September the twenty-third, nineteen-fifty-eight in Chicago, Ill—"

"Fifty-eight?" she asked, her brows rising as she revealed, for the first time, the beginning trembles of a smile. "So, I'm two years younger?" She shrugged faintly. "Maybe this new life will have its perks after all."

Marshal Cleary returned her hint of a smile. "Yes, ma'am. It's what the government hopes." He glanced down at the papers in his hand, quickly skimming the top sheet. "Your parents names were William and Katherine Davis. Both are deceased, and you don't have any siblings. You're widowed—"

"Wow…" Dee Dee interrupted softly, with barely a whisper. "Avi and I…can we, uh. Can we at least have a dog, maybe a goldfish? We sound kind of pitiful, don't you think?" She couldn't help but realize, even though sadly, how closely fantasy was mirroring reality. The last six years had been marked by loneliness, aloneness, and now it would continue in the make-believe world the government had created for Avi and her.

Cleary grunted unintelligibly under his breath, maintaining his clinical edge despite Dee Dee's weak attempt at humor and the perceptible sorrow that had settled on her face. "Your daughter…" He cast a glance at Porter, his frown deepening, wrinkling the tanned skin around the edges of his mouth. "She's, uh. She's rather…opinionated. When Agent Porter and I interviewed her, she made it clear that she didn't like the name we'd chosen for her, said if she had to have a new one, she would only answer if it was, uh. If it was…Cinderella."

Dee Dee chuckled softly, unadulterated. "Cinderella's her favorite princess."

"Yes, ma'am," Cleary agreed. "She made that very clear, also. But…well. Cinderella isn't exactly a viable option, so we—your daughter and myself—came to an agreement. We have birth certificates for both of you; the name listed on hers is Ella Ross, birth date the fourth of December, nineteen-ninety-two."

"Ella…" Dee Dee whispered, saying it even softer, twice more. _Ella_. It wouldn't have been her pick, but it hadn't been Elian's, either. And that fact alone made her like it.

"We understand you have somewhat of a talent for art," Cleary continued, "so that's the occupation we've chosen for you—an art teacher. A job has already been secured for you at a local high school in the area you'll be living, and you're scheduled to start work at the beginning of the next school term. We've rented an apartment for you, it's been furnished, and by the time you arrive the kitchen will be stocked and your daughter and you will both have complete wardrobes. Hopefully, everything will be to your liking." He dropped the envelope and stack of papers onto the end of the bed. "You have all the documentation you'll need to substantiate that you are Alexandra and Ella Ross. Besides birth certificates there's social security information, medical and dental records, an Illinois' drivers license, credit history…everything. I'd suggest you use your time at the safe house to familiarize yourself with it."

Dee Dee lifted a brow, glancing lazily at the papers. "Am I allowed to ask where you're sending Alexandra and Ella?"

One side of Cleary's mouth curled upward with the hint of lightheartedness, offering the first indication to Dee Dee that he might actually be human after all instead of the emotionless robot he was trying to pass himself off as. "How do you feel about Hawaii?"

"Hawaii?" She shrugged. "I've heard it's a nice place to visit."

"Well, let's hope it's an even nicer place to live. You're going to the island of Oahu." After retrieving the paperwork, he stepped around the bed and handed it to Dee Dee. "There's a smaller packet inside the envelope containing five thousand dollars in cash. It'll help you get started." He took a step back, shooting a quick glance at Porter. "Immediately following the end of your testimony, you'll be taken back to the safe house. We'll have marshals waiting who'll help alter your daughter's and your appearances. Trust me, they know what they're doing so there won't be anything to worry about."

"Boy. You guys think of everything, don't you?" Dee Dee muttered nervously.

"As soon as you're finished with the marshals, you'll be taken to the airport. You'll be given your airline tickets and a travel itinerary at that time. Marshals will be situated throughout MIA to make sure you make it to your gate safely, but keep in mind, once you board the plane, you're on your own. We won't be able to protect you any longer, and as far as the government will be concerned, Dee Dee McCall and Ava Sophia Sandoval will never have existed."

"Dee Dee McCall never existed…" she whispered, her hands twisted in her lap. "I've wondered for a long time if she ever really did."

"I know this is difficult, Ms. McCall," Porter interjected, offering a concerned smile.

"Do you?" she asked quickly. "How do you know, Agent Porter? Has anyone ever taken away everything that mattered to you?"

Porter's gaze dropped and he shrugged stiltedly, awkwardly. "It's difficult, I understand. But I'm afraid it's the only choice you have. I don't have to tell you what kind of man Elian Sandoval is."

"No, you don't have to tell me."

"Ma'am," Cleary broke in. "It's important to remember that you can't make contact with anyone. From this moment on, there shouldn't be any communication with family or friends. It's imperative that no one knows where your daughter and you are."

His announcement wasn't unexpected; she'd known it would be at the top of the list of rules. But still, hearing it said out loud sent a jolt of fear speeding through her. It was paralyzing, suffocating. Making it all too real for her to keep pretending that it wasn't her life being discussed so damned clinically. "No one?" She shook her head, laughing softly, sadly. "Come on, Porter. Don't do this to me, please."

"I'm sorry," Porter responded, sounding as regretful as Dee Dee had sounded frightened. "But it's the only way. I don't have to tell you that."

"No. No, I know. But…if I could…just…" She massaged her forehead with trembling fingers. "Before, I didn't…I never got to say goodbye, you know? If I could…just let me talk to Hunter. Please? Let me—"

"If I let that happen, I'll be putting both Lieutenant Hunter and you in danger," Porter said sternly. "Anyone you contact from this moment on could potentially become a target for Sandoval. It's important you keep that in mind."

She nodded hesitantly, resignedly. She understood; she knew Porter was right. But that didn't mean she was ready to submerge herself in the same nightmare again. Disappearing without anyone knowing where she was, without her knowing about anyone else. The people she loved most would die all over again, and she didn't know if she could bury them a second time. Not when, in her heart, they'd all just begun living again.

"Well, ma'am. I guess that's it," Cleary said. "Do you have any questions?"

"Do I…um. I…" Shakiness momentarily stole her voice. "I understand why I can't contact anyone but, uh. Since I've been out of Coral Gables, I haven't been able to see or talk to my mother. I haven't even been able to tell her that she has a granddaughter. Could I at least write her a letter?" She climbed off the bed, facing down an openly disagreeing Porter. "I won't tell her anything, all right, and you can read the letter if you want. I just. I need to let her know that I'm okay. I want her to know about Avi, and that she doesn't have to worry about us—that she doesn't have to worry anymore. Please, Agent Porter. It's been six years. That's long enough for her to have to wonder, don't you think?"

Porter hesitated, landing a cautious glance on Cleary before answering with a hesitant nod. "Give the letter to me. I'll make sure it gets delivered."

Dee Dee nodded, responding with shaky, tear-laden, "Thank you."

"Sure," Porter said. "Well. We've brought a change of clothes for you, so Marshal Cleary and I'll step outside while you get ready. Like I said, once the doctor releases you, we'll transport your daughter and you to the safe house."

"So, this is it? It's…really—"

"This is it," Porter confirmed, touching a hand to her shoulder. "I'm sorry, Ms. McCall. I really am."

Dee Dee watched the men make their way across the room. As Porter pulled the door open, she jumped forward an anxious step, calling after him, stopping him. "What're you going to tell Hunter?" she asked, as Porter glanced back at her. "He'll tear this city apart, you know, looking for us."

Porter hesitated only a second, before agreeing with a faint nod. "He'll tear it apart, but he won't find you."

**xxx**

"What the hell is going on? You underhanded son of a bitch!"

Hunter charged through the conference room, skidding to a stop on the opposite side of the rectangular-shaped table from Riley Porter. It was the same table he'd paced around as Porter recited facts that hadn't mattered about a sham of a marriage and a faceless child, and it was the same table a shell-shocked Avi had been sitting at the first time he'd seen her. "They're gone, damn it!" he hissed, a finger aimed at Porter's tensed face. "Where the hell did you put them?"

Porter responded with a deliberate shake of his head, an expectant grimace further tightening his expression. "Go home, Hunter," he grumbled tiredly, his gaze dropping to the papers scattered in front of him on the table.

"Go…" Hunter's voice faded, more with disbelief than the anger that had been raging inside of him when he'd arrived at the Federal Building. "I just left the hospital. There's no record of Avi or Dee Dee ever being treated or admitted, not under their names or the aliases you gave them." He leaned over the table, slapping his hands down on top of the papers Porter was pretending to read. "I sat with Dee Dee while the doctor checked her out, and I watched the nurse put name bands on both Avi's and her wrists when they were admitted. And now, today, no one remembers them." He straightened, his arms tensed at his sides. "Tell me what in the hell is going on, or I swear to—"

Porter slammed his hands down on the tabletop, raising his gaze slowly, indignantly, and with perceptible remorse. "What's going on? Exactly what you think is going on." He slumped in his chair, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and index finger. "Elian Sandoval is locked up in solitary, okay, but do you really think that's enough to keep him cut off from the outside? I mean, come on. What'd you want me to do? Sandoval got to Dee Dee once already, and there's no reason to think he won't try to get to her again. So, what? Did you want me to let you take the kid and her back to the sunny beaches of California? Is that it? Because if I would've let you do that, how many more hours do you think they would've lived?"

Hunter grunted a laugh, sashaying nervously from one foot to the other. "So, this is about your case. Right? It's the only reason you need Dee Dee alive—to give the FBI the win against that son of a bitch."

"Of course it's about the case!" Porter hissed, jumping to his feet. His chair rolled backwards, coming to a slow stop only a few inches from the wall. "I want that bastard behind bars for the rest of his miserable life! And you're right! I need Dee Dee in order to make that happen!"

"Yeah? Well, what about what Dee Dee needs? What about what that little girl needs? Don't you think they've been through enough already?"

"I need her testimony!" Porter barked. "I need her to bring a jury to their fucking knees out of sympathy and disgust for what Sandoval put her through! And I need her to reveal every repulsive secret he was stupid enough not to care if she overheard! This is our one and only chance, Hunter, and I'm not going to blow it!"

"And when does Dee Dee get her chance? You want to tell me that?"

Porter sucked in a sharp breath, and then another. Letting Hunter's question hang between them for a moment before answering. "As soon as the trial's over," he said, his voice lowered, less shaky. "That's when."

Hunter took a step back, locking his hands around his hips. "You don't think Sandoval is going to turn up the heat once he finds out she's testifying against him? She won't even make it up the courthouse steps before one of his guard dogs puts a bullet in her."

"She'll make it," Porter retorted sternly, convicted. "You can bet your ass she'll make it."

"Okay, fine. So, you need her to testify. But let me see her. Let me at least talk to her—"

Porter answered first with a strong shake of his head. "I can't, you know that."

"You mind telling me why the hell not?"

"Because for all intents and purposes, neither Dee Dee McCall nor Ava Sandoval exists anymore. From here on out, they _never_ existed." He spiked a brow, meeting Hunter's narrowed stare. "You get it now?"

What remained of Hunter's argument morphed into a sickened, disagreeing grunt, and he felt his heart skip a beat before stopping altogether. _They never existed_. He got it; he understood. Just like he knew, in that moment, staring into Porter's remorse-filled eyes that he'd lost again.

"They've been moved to a safe house," Porter admitted reluctantly. "They'll stay there until the trial ends, and then they're going into WITSEC. The, uh, the Witness Protection—"

"I know what the fuck it is!"

Porter nodded, giving Hunter a moment before continuing. "Dee Dee's already been briefed and the wheels have been set in motion." He shrugged, looking as helpless as Hunter suddenly felt. "It's done. I'm sorry."

"No," Hunter rebutted, a hint of pleading in his voice. "You can't do this to them."

"I can't do, what? I can't try to save their lives?"

Hunter took in a raspy breath, scrubbing his face with his hand. "No. She just got back, Porter. Damn it, I just got her back."

"And now she's gone again." He said it simply. Not as if it didn't matter—their fate. But with the reality that it was out of their hands. "Prison won't stop Sandoval. He'll keep looking for Dee Dee and Avi, and if we don't step in, he'll find them. Dee Dee knows that, just like she knows this is her only chance."

"She agreed to it?"

"What else could she do?"

Hunter turned a half-circle, tilting his head back and hitting the ceiling with an angry glare. "I just need to talk to her," he pleaded, turning his focus back on an expressionless Porter. "Let me do that much?"

Porter hesitated, before answering with another, fainter shake of his head. "She's alive, and for a long time that was more than anyone hoped for. She fought hard for six years, so let's make the next six a little easier for her. Huh? If I let you see her and fill her head with all sorts of crazy ideas, I can't guarantee her safety. And, damn it, Hunter, I want her to be safe. I want her to have at least that much to take away from all of this."

"So do I."

"Then leave her alone. Let her accept all of this so she can move on."

"Let her accept it, right. You wanna tell me how I'm supposed to accept it?"

Porter shrugged, not having a useful answer, only more, ineffective regret. "I don't know. The same way you did before, I guess. Only this time at least, you know she's all right. And all things considered, maybe that'll make it a little easier."

Hunter turned his back to the agent, crossing the room slowly. Stepping up to the door, he stopped. His conversation with Dee Dee that night in the park came back to him, and he could hear her broken voice again with as much clarity as if she were standing beside him at that moment. _"I'm forty- years-old, and what do I have? I don't have my own home, or money, or friends. I'll never have my career again. I'll never have any of the things I had before." _He dropped his hold on the door handle, turning back as Porter was dragging his chair back to the table. "You can't expect me to do this, to let her go again."

"Hunter. Damn it…" Porter sighed, exasperated but not seeming surprised by Hunter's tenacity.

"We need to talk about this," Hunter pushed, determined. "We're going to talk about it. Because Dee Dee and Avi deserve more than to be forced to spend the rest of their lives alone and on the run, and if we have to sit here until Sandoval's trial ends, we're going to figure out how to give them more."

**xxx**

The airport was busy, alive with activity. People scurried here and then there, dragging suitcases behind them, some looking lost, others looking bored. But none seemed to notice anyone else.

Except for him. He saw everyone.

Standing at the front of the busy terminal, he was partially hidden behind a stone pillar and completely hidden, he hoped, behind the dark, wire-rimmed sunglasses. He searched the faces that passed by, dissecting each one, prepared to move when he caught sight of the ones he was looking for. His directive was etched into his mind. He'd practiced and rehearsed it, and then he'd practiced and rehearsed it some more.

He wouldn't fail, not again. She wouldn't slip away.

The yellow cab came to a stop at the curb, unremarkable on its own. But when the woman emerged from the backseat, the tinier hand clutched inside of her bigger one, everything insignificant about the car that looked exactly like hundreds of others passing through the terminal made an instant switch to significant.

The two joined the crowd effortlessly and inconspicuously, and if it wasn't for the hint of nervousness on the older one's face, he might not have noticed them at all. Her auburn-shaded hair fell in soft waves, touching the tops of her shoulders, and her eyes, dark and haunted, searched the passing faces intently. The little one's hand was locked inside of hers, and she held onto it tightly, with a death grip. As they walked through the sliding doors into the building, she made a last glance over her shoulder, seeming to soak in for a final time the scenery she was leaving behind. And he wondered, was she saying goodbye or good riddance?

After the doors slid closed behind them, he stepped out of his hiding place and followed them. Cutting through the corridor with the skill of a football player dodging his opponents as he headed for the end zone, he didn't slow down or stop for pedestrians but shoved anyone in his way out of it. He saw the little one look back, look in his direction, and afraid he'd gotten too close too quickly, he slowed his steps and let the two of them move further ahead. He couldn't afford to blow it by making either of them suspicious, not when he'd finally gotten so close.

They waited for their turn at the ticket counter, producing identification when requested, and the older one secured their boarding passes in the front flap of her bag. After another cautious look around, she led the little one into the seating area, settling into two chairs side-by-side in front of the large, plate-glass window. Airplane engines rumbled outside and conversation slurred throughout the room, but they seemed removed from it all. Too preoccupied with each other, he could tell, with fear. Too preoccupied, thankfully, to notice him.

He sat down at the opposite end of the room, folding himself into a chair and sneaking peaks at them from behind a newspaper. But he didn't read what was written, he couldn't. He was as preoccupied as they were—with them. It was almost time, and he was ready. And when the time was absolutely perfect, he would finally make his move. There wasn't room for error or doubt, but he wasn't worried. Somehow, he knew everything would fall into place.

The right moment would arrive, the perfect opportunity would present itself, and he would be prepared.

They wouldn't slip away.

**xxx**

"You heared him, Mama? He says Spanish same like us."

Dee Dee shot a cautious glance at the man seated beside Avi, as he turned away from the window and switched off his cell phone. He smiled, nodding as he leaned in closer toward Avi and her.

"Perdone que le moleste—"

"I'm sorry." Dee Dee shook her head, what little of a smile she'd managed wilting. "I don't, uh. No Espanol."

"Uh-huh, Mama," Avi piped up, staring up from her seat sandwiched between Dee Dee's and the stranger's. "Do so. We know lots of Spanish words. Papa and Isabel teached us. 'Member?"

Dee Dee touched the top of Avi's head, softly sushing her as she ignored the man's quizzical stare. Looking past him, she focused outside the window. _Think. Think. Think_. She had to remember—who the government had decided she would become, whom she would be from then on. But it was all a jumble, even though it was supposed to have started making sense. Her name, date of birth, parents' names, dates of their deaths…

"Excuse me. Mrs. Ross?"

Dee Dee glanced up, meeting the flight attendant's excited smile with a hesitant one of her own.

"I'm sorry to bother you," the blonde-headed woman continued, her smile holding. "But it seems there's been a bit of a mix-up. I need to ask that your daughter and you come with me, please."

"A mix-up?" Dee Dee stuttered, her gaze landing on the dark-haired man again, as if he could offer some sort of explanation. "Is something wrong?"

"If you'll just come with me," the flight attendant reiterated, motioning toward the front of the plane. "There's nothing to worry about, I can assure you."

Dee Dee climbed to her feet, pulling Avi's hand into her own. As she entered the aisle, Avi only a step behind her, she heard their seatmate call out a friendly, "Que tenga un buen dia." And without thought, without looking back, she muttered in return, "Thank you. You have a nice day, too."

**xxx**

He spied cautiously, staring down the aisle until finding them seated near the back of the plane.

The tension she was feeling was obvious, palpable. She made strained smalltalk with the stranger seated beside them, her lips trembling as she put effort into smiling. Her eyes never stopped moving, roaming, searching the faces around them. And after she'd thoroughly studied each one, she studied them again.

He made himself as comfortable as possible, offering absent niceties to the flight attentendants and ignoring the other passengers as they filed past him. He couldn't concentrate any further than her—than them. The time was right, he'd decided, although he wasn't entirely sure why. His nerves were on edge, making it difficult to breathe, to concentrate on anything other than them and the plan he had so intricately devised. He would have to be careful, of course. The last thing he needed was to draw attention to himself, and he couldn't afford to place any attention on them, either. She had gone to great lengths—played exactly by the rules—to make sure they blended in and remained unnoticed, and he knew that was how it needed it to stay.

As the overly bubbly flight attendant made her way toward him, he stopped her with a wave, and then directed her closer with another one. After whispering his secret—his hope—to her, he motioned toward the back of the plane, before adding, "The woman in seat twenty-six-A, with the little girl? Think you can help me out?"

After he shared his secret, his hope, she reacted excitedly, answering with a broad smile and enthusiastic, "Leave it to me."

He settled back in his seat, crossing one leg over the other and thinking through his plan for the thousandth time. It was all he had thought about for the past six weeks, and with the time to execute it having finally arrived, he could hardly sit still. Nerves and anticipation and what ifs had chased relaxation away, but even still, he felt prepared. _He was prepared_. He had to be, because she would fight him. Her will hadn't been destroyed, she'd proven that much. So, he had to be stronger, more persistent. Insuperable.

He had to succeed.

Because he hadn't been left with any other choice.

**xxx**

Dee Dee struggled to keep up with the flight attendant's quick steps while dragging Avi behind her, the four-year-old more preoccupied with peeking down each row they passed versus staying close to her mother. They slid through the curtain sectioning off first class, Dee Dee arguing with the flight attendant through a persistent shake of her head. Stopping abruptly, in the spotlight of the other woman's wide, pleased smile, she stared at the man through sudden tears. Her chest deflated and the tiny hand inside of her own wriggled free.

"You should've told us," the flight attendant said lowly, her head leaned in closer to Dee Dee's. "I'm just glad your husband did."

Still with a smile, the woman spun around and took off back down the aisle. Dee Dee shook her head, tears sprinkling her cheeks. "Oh…God…" she whispered, continuing forward, toward the exit. She rounded the corner, ready to break free, but the strong hands locked around her upper arms, stopping her. Bowing her head, sniffling, she dragged a shaky hand beneath her nose. "How'd you find us?" She cupped her hand over her mouth, keeping her gaze lowered from the curious stares that were being directed at her. "You can't—no. No, no…no. _No_. What're you doing here?"

Hunter directed her in a turn, greeting her with a lopsided grin. "What am I doing here? Well, now. Unless I got on the wrong plane, I'm on my way to Hawaii."

She pulled out of his gentle hold. "Oh God, no. No, Rick, you…you can't. No." She turned toward the door again, staring down the empty walkway. "Please," she whispered, as Hunter's hands draped her shoulders. "This is…it's crazy. You know that. It's— You can't."

"Hey. I'm not here to ask for permission."

She spun around quickly, swallowing him with widened, shock-filled eyes. "No!" she hissed, her voice hushed but her anger unmistakable. "No. I won't let you, Rick—"

"Uh-uh," he corrected, taking the stuffed bag out of her arms. "The name's Tennant—Declan Tennant."

She shook her head, her brows creasing. "Does Riley Porter know you're here?"

His grin reemerged. "Who do you think pushed my paperwork through? And let me tell you, the Attorney General was as receptive to this idea as you seem to be."

"Oh, God. Rick, please," she whined. He dropped his hand to the small of her back and gave her a tiny push forward, toward their side-by-side seats that Avi had settled into the center of, balancing her tiny bottom on the inside arms of the chairs. She initially met their return with hesitance, her quizzical stare locked onto her mother. With a whispered, "Everything's okay, sweetie," Dee Dee swiped at her cheeks, clearing her tears.

After Dee Dee filled the window seat, Hunter sat down beside her, pulling a fidgeting Avi off the chair arms and settling her in his lap. "Look it," he began, his head tilted toward Dee Dee's. "It's already done, which means it's too late to turn back." He nudged her shoulder with his. "And just in case, by some chance, you haven't managed to figure it out yet, this is exactly what I want."

She settled stiffly into the seat, her dark eyes arguing with him. "You'll lose everything."

"If I let this plane take off without me, I'll lose everything. This way, I'm finally getting it back." He leaned foreard, reaching into a black duffle bag shoved beneath the seat in front of his. After a quick second of searching, he pulled a rag doll into view. Her yellow yarn hair hung in two pigtails, both flowing over the fronts of her shoulders, and her blue button eyes stared out at the world unblinking. Red thread that was sewn into a smile and just a hint of a nose finished off the simplistic face, one that Hunter decided must be comforting, as Avi grabbed the doll out of his hands and hugged it to her chest.

"You finded another Lily?" the four-year-old gushed, wide-eyed. She held the doll out for Dee Dee to inspect. "See, Mama? Looks just like my other Lily. 'Cept this Lily's not so dirty."

Dee Dee's lips trembled, her smile unavoidable. "You got her a new doll," she whispered, blinking back grateful tears. "Thank you. She's, uh…the other one. She's missed her a lot."

"Yeah, I know," Hunter responded dryly. "The hotel room, remember? Never knew lungs could be as strong as hers are."

"Know what, Hunter?" Avi said, spinning around on Hunter's lap to face him. "Can't say my name no more. Not ever." She smiled, wide and toothy, with a hint of pride toward remembering the secret she'd been sworn to keep. "Now gotta call me a new name—Cinderella."

Hunter frowned, his brows wrinkling. "Cinderella?"

Avi nodded adamantly. "Uh-huh. That's what I telled the man with the star I want my new name to be. 'Cept…" She took in a breath, her chest inflating. "He didn't like it, so I gotta be _Ella_ instead. But I'm gonna say Cinderella anyways, 'cause I think it's bestest."

Hunter chuckled, nodding his agreement. "You know what? I think it's best, too." He pursed his lips, sizing up an expectant-looking Avi. "Cinderella, yep. I like it. It fits just right."

"Avi," Dee Dee whispered, shaking her head. "You can't…you have to remember our secret. It's important that you remember."

"I do 'member," Avi answered, nodding. "But you don't, Mama. You just said my old name, the one we're not 'posed to say no more. I telled Hunter Cinderella, just like I'm 'posed to." Taking in a pensive breath, with the doll still cradled against her chest, she drew Hunter into her dark stare again. "You wanna know our secret?" After Hunter answered with a nod, that he did, she shot a cautious glance at Dee Dee. "We gotta go really super far away, but only me and Mama. Papa don't getta come, too. Neither does Isabel. We don't getta see them no more. And Mama said that means forever."

Hunter dragged his fingers down the length of Avi's hair, nodding his understanding. "That's what I heard. And, you know, that got me to thinking…" He shrugged a shoulder. "What if I come with Mama and you? Then it'll be our secret—all of ours."

Twisting her pudgy lips to the side, Avi's brows wrinkled and lowered, as she mulled over his proposition for only a minute before giving her consent with a hesitant nod. Seeming satisfied with Hunter's insinuation of a promise, she turned her attention back on the rag doll. Petting her face, tangling her fingers in her yarn pigtails, and recounting tales about the recent past, days that the original Lily had missed out on.

Dee Dee scrubbed her forehead with her fingertips, the uncertainties crowding their future crashing down on her. Uncertainties about starting over, starting new, with unfamiliar identities and responsibilities and expectations, all of which she knew were unfair to force on Hunter, too. "Going into this program doesn't mean anything, you know," she said. "Not against someone like Elian. And I don't want you to get hurt. I couldn't survive that."

He shrugged a shoulder. "The way I see it, we already did survive it. We did it alone the first time and made it, so just think what'll happen if we do it together this time."

"But." Her argument faded into rambling in her mind, as she silently tried out idea after idea, trying to find one that might actually send Hunter off the plane. "What about Mallory?"

He shrugged again, hesitantly, his tensed expression foretelling his regret without him having to verbalize a single syllable of it. "Mallory is, uh. She'll be okay. We talked and, well, she understands this is what I need to do. Believe it or not, she even said it's what I should do."

"She understands?" Dee Dee deadpanned, through a roll of her eyes. "She thought you were going to marry her."

"And I thought I was going to marry her, too. Once." He retrieved an envelope from the breast pocket of his jacket, emptying it of a folded piece of paper. "Turns out I can't, though," he continued, handing the paper to Dee Dee. "According to the U.S. Government, I'm already married—to one Alexandra Ross. Apparently, the happy event took place just this morning in Chicago."

"Married? This morning?" she repeated, confused. She took the paper from him, unfolding it slowly, cautiously, like she was more afraid of than curious about the information written on it. Scanning it quickly, she shook her head. "This morning, right. Convenient, isn't it? The ceremony took place only fifteen minutes after I finished testifying?"

He smiled faintly, smugly. "Convenient, yeah. Kind of fitting, too, if you ask me."

"But not legal."

"Well, now." He combed his fingers absently through Avi's dark tresses. "I don't know. I have a marriage certificate right here that says it is legal. So, what're you implying—the government would actually lie to us?" He forced a frown, his expression scrunching. "That just wouldn't happen."

She chuckled softly, although not nearly as amused as sadly. "I'm already married. Remember?"

He nodded once, firmly. "I remember. According to the government, you're married to Declan Tennant, and he's…uh. Let's see here." He pulled another paper out of his pocket, unfolding it and scanning over the typed information. "Looks like he's a Bostonian—born and bred. Went to college, graduated top of his class, and has made a comfortable life for himself as a restaurateur."

Dee Dee dropped her head back against the seat, closing her eyes. She felt his fingers against her cheek, but she didn't look at him, she didn't acknowledge his touch. Because she didn't want to give in to him yet, and she knew she was close to doing just that. It was wrong for her to want him to make the sacrifice he seemed so intent on making—she knew it was wrong. It was selfish. But still, she couldn't remember a single time throughout the past six years when she'd felt as relieved as she did in that moment. For the first time in what seemed like a lifetime, she almost felt safe.

"Hey."

She opened her eyes, finding him staring. With Avi slouched against him, her head nestled against his chest, eyelids drooping sleepily, and the new Lily clutched safely in her arms.

"It's going to be okay," he said, sounding more like it was a belief than a breakable promise. "We're going to be okay."

"But you can't come back. Once the plane takes off, that's it. It's forever."

"It's forever," he repeated, snaking his arm around Avi's waist, hugging her against him. "Got it."

"You're sure? I mean, this…it's what you—"

"I'm as sure as you are."

She laughed softly, tearfully. "That's not saying much."

"Yeah, well. Don't worry, huh? We're gonna make it work."

He closed his hand around hers, and she let him. She didn't fight or flinch; she didn't try to pull away. She simply let it happen, let it be. "Have you talked to Charlie? Were you able to explain what's happened?"

"I saw him a few days ago." Leaning into her, he caressed her forehead with a kiss. "He said to give you that."

"He'll be safe?"

"He's moving to Seattle to be closer to his sister and her family. Porter thinks he'll be okay."

"God. I really missed him." She smiled faintly, with longing. "I will miss him."

"This is the only way."

"For Avi and me, but not you. You're giving up too much. You're giving up…" She sighed, her tears beginning again. "You're giving up everything—your family, your job…Mallory. It's not fair, and I don't want you to do it. I want you to get off the plane, all right? I want you to find Mallory and work out your problems. Marry her like you planned, and just…God. Go on with your life." She didn't try to stop her tears as they hit her cheeks; she only tried to stop the truth. From being seen in her eyes, or heard in her voice, or noticeable in the ways she moved, or, damn it, breathed. Because as much as she didn't want Hunter to leave, she knew it was what she needed to force him to do.

"That's exactly what I'm trying to do," he countered, touching his fingertip to her cheek and stealing a lone tear. "I'm trying to get on with my life." As her watery stare met his, he nodded. "I want you to understand something. I'm not here because I expect anything. There's no pressure, no demands. I just want to be with you, and…uh…" He glanced down at the sleeping child in his lap. "With Cinderella here."

She chuckled softly, mulling over his confession for a moment, tossing it around in her mind, dissecting it and searching for any hidden meanings behind it. But the sincerity she found in Hunter's eyes—the sincerity that she remembered him possessing—convinced her that it was finally safe to drop her defenses, completely even if still cautiously. After years of co-existing with suspicion and lies and deception, honesty was finally right in front of her, wanting to be a part of her life again. It was in the familiar blue eyes that wouldn't release her stare and in the strength of the arms protecting the child who was only just beginning to feel like hers.

"You want to be with us," she repeated through a whisper. "Why?"

He hesitated. "Because it was too hard without you."

She pulled her hand out of his, turning toward the window. "You don't know what you're getting yourself into."

Wrapping his hand beneath her chin, he turned her face back toward his. Gently, he brushed his fingers across her cheeks, wiping away what remained of her tears. "Yes, I do. I know."

They fell into silence—nervous silence, frightened silence. After a moment of combating what ifs, what could be's and what probably never should be, Hunter broke through Dee Dee's brooding. "Porter and I talked a lot," he admitted. "He, uh. He gave me some names, names of people on Oahu. You know, therapist kind of people, and we…I think… Maybe once we're settled, we should check into them."

"No." She gave his suggestion another second to sink in, before shooting it down again with a shake of her head. "No. It'd be too dangerous. To talk to someone, tell them—"

"Hey. These are people connected to WITSEC. Porter guaranteed it'd be safe."

"I don't know," she responded hesitantly, disgust making a slight emergence in her voice. "I don't know if I…can…" Both her secrets and she had been put on display at the trial—blatantly, with nowhere for either to hide. Each day she was forced to stand naked and exposed in front of the jury, and each day her hatred for Elian grew. The stories she recounted disgusted her as much as she could tell they did the engrossed spectators and so, finally, she removed herself from them completely. She reported events in the third person, referring to Dee Dee McCall as if she were the nonexistent and powerless victim the government viewed her as being. She did her best to ignore Elian's threatening glare from across the room, because the few times their stares did meet, she could tell exactly what he was thinking—plotting. And in the end, it gave her a small amount of satisfaction to know that he regretted his quick decision years earlier to steal her life from her. His sanctimonious prediction replayed in her mind daily—_No one will find you_. And for a while, he had been right. But that was only because she hadn't understood yet that it had never been anyone else's responsibility to find her, it had been up to her all along to find her own way home.

Glancing at the worried face beside her, she quickly found the sincerity in his eyes, and seeing it took her back in time. To a time that was safe and happy and comfortable, a time that didn't have any knowledge of Elian Sandoval, a time she wished more than anything else that both Hunter and she still belonged in. "All right," she agreed, although not sounding entirely confident. "I'll talk to someone. But I have to do it alone. I just. I'm not ready, Rick. I don't know if I'll ever be ready for you to hear…to know."

"Whatever you want. It doesn't matter, Dee Dee, whether or not I ever know. But I was thinking, maybe I'll talk to someone, too. Maybe if I do, it'll help us both in the long run."

She watched as he slid his fingers between hers, connecting them. Locking them together. "You know, you're still the best friend I've ever had."

"Yeah? You, too."

With her free hand, she reached for Avi, smoothing flyaway strands of hair behind the little girl's ear. "So, uh. It's Declan, huh?" She smiled, her dark brows rising teasingly.

"You want to tell me what's wrong with Declan? The way I see it, it's a good name. Solid."

"Solid…" She agreed with a nod. "That's what you definitely are—you're solid." Her smile widened. "So? How'd you get first class seats, anyway? Avi and I got stuck at the back of the plane."

"Well, I'll tell you," he began, leaning his broad shoulder against her smaller one. He pulled a third, letter-size envelope out of the breast pocket of his jacket, dropping it into her lap. "Like I said, Porter and I had a long talk, and I told him about some plans I'd made. Plans that got a six-year kink thrown into them."

Dee Dee pulled the faded airline tickets out of the envelope, her puzzled stare darting between Hunter and them. "Miami?" With a soft, surprised breath, she added a whispered, "Oh my, God. These were bought…" She shook her head, retracing the printed words with her fingertip. "That was a long time ago."

"A lifetime ago."

"You should've gotten your money back."

"Oh, I don't know," he said, directing her attention toward the aisle and the awaiting flight attendant. She smiled patiently, a tray in her hands that supported two crystal glasses. "I figured if I held onto them long enough, I'd get the chance to cash in on them."

"Champagne, Mrs. Tennant?" the flight attendant asked, handing them both a glass. "Really, you should've told us when you checked in that you were on your honeymoon."

"It, uh. It was kind of a surprise," Dee Dee stammered, chuckling. "I didn't know about it myself."

After the flight attendant took off down the aisle, leaving behind the promise of an endless supply of champagne throughout the flight, Dee Dee took a sip of the bubbly liquid. She closed her eyes as it tickled a path down the back of her throat, whispering contentedly, "It's good."

"Yeah. It is good."

Neither of their compliments, she instinctively knew, had anything to do with champagne.

Turning into him, she swallowed him again with a frightened stare. "You're sure about this—really sure? Because it's not too late to back out, you know. I don't want you to wake up one morning regretting your decision."

Hunter propped his finger beneath her chin, lifting her face toward his. "Usted es todo." She received his unpolished Spanish with a polite smile, but it quickly faded as he repeated his confession. "You're everything. And that's why I'm here, because without Cinderella and you, I'm nothing. I don't have anything, and I'm ready to have something again."

The safety Hunter was so unselfishly offering shot through Dee Dee, making her shudder. He was promising kindness and security and gentleness, all the things she remembered him giving—_being_—before. He was promising to help her heal and find herself again, to help her find her child, instead of threatening to take more from her or force her to remain lost and powerless. Finally, someone was offering hope, instead of forcing more hopelessness on her.

She nodded weakly, through more tears. Her head began to spin dizzily, but she didn't know if it was because of the changes taking place, or Hunter's unexpected presence, or maybe just the champagne. But whichever it was, through the sudden haziness, she found herself teetering once again on the edge of a cliff. Below her, at the end of what would prove to be a free-fall marked by self-discovery and exhausting recovery was a new life with her daughter and Hunter. A life she had wished for and dreamt about, a life that would be full of uncertainty, but even more excitement and acceptance and love. And behind her, still chasing her so ruthlessly, were fears and insecurities and self-doubts. Behind her was uncontrollable and unimaginable anger.

Behind her was Elian.

And she knew the time had come, the decision had to be made for herself as much as Avi. There was no time left for hesitating, not a minute to spare second-guessing. She had reached the second most defining moment in her life, the moment that held within it the power to change everything.

And she jumped.

_The End_


End file.
